"_Be the mortial_, an' that's a good advice, Mike, if I can but folly it. This love is a mighty quare affection, ain't it?"
"I didn't ketch it at all. I took it natural."
"And did you ever get cured, Mike? Tell us."
From the foregoing characteristic conversation between Mike Riley and his friend, Ned Flynn, it would appear pretty evident that the blind boy's shaft,
"Feathered with pleasure and tipped with pain,"
was fast embedded in the heart of the latter, or in plainer and not less expressive phrase, he was bothered entirely by Miss Nelly Malone.
During an interval of rest from mowing, the dialogue took place; that over, they resumed their labor; the convalescent "married man" humming a sprightly air, which kept time to the stroke of his scythe, while the poor wounded deer, Ned, came in now and then with an accompaniment of strictly orthodox sighs.
It certainly was a most extensive smite on the part of pretty Nell; and a nobler heart never beat under crimson and gold, than the honest, manly one which now throbbed with the first ardor of a passion pure and unselfish. A short time longer, and they rested again. Ned was sad and silent; and the never-forgotten respect, which makes suffering sacred in the eyes of an Irish peasant, kept Mike mute also; at last, Ned, with a half downcast, whole sheepish expression, said, the ghost of a smile creeping over his features:
"No," rejoined his friend, with that ambiguous emphasis which might as well mean yes. Adding, with dexterous tact, "Is it a song? An' why the mischief shouldn't you; sure an' haven't you as illigant a heart to fish songs up out as anybody else? Sing us it."
"I'm afeard that you'll laugh if I do, Mike."
"Is it me?" replied Mike, so reproachfully that Ned was completely softened. After the making-your-mind-up minute or two, with a fine, clear voice, he sung.
All ye sportin' young heroes, wid hearts light an' free, Take care how you come near the town of Tralee; For the witch of all witches that iver wove spell In the town of Tralee, at this moment does dwell. Oh, then, don't venture near her, be warned by me, For the divil all out is the Rose of Tralee.
She's as soft an' as bright as a young summer morn, Her breath's like the breeze from the fresh blossom'd thorn, Her cheek has the sea shell's pale delicate hue, And her lips are like rose leaves just bathed in the dew; So, then, don't venture near her, be warned by me, For she's mighty desthructive, this Rose of Tralee.