It may be conjectured that Mr. Dempsey, like many other gifted people, had a habit of compensating for the want of society by holding little dialogues or discourses with himself,--a custom from which he derived no small gratification, for, while it lightened the weariness of a lonely way, it enabled him to say many more flattering and civil things to himself than he usually heard from an ungrateful world.
"They talk of Demerara," said he; "I back Antrim against the world for a hurricane. The rainy season here lasts all the year round; and if practice makes perfect--There, now I 'm wet through, I can't be worse. Ah! Helen, Helen, if you knew how unfit Paul Dempsey is to play Paris! By the way, who was the fellow that swam the Hellespont for love of a young lady? Not Laertes, no--that's not it-Leander, that's the name--Leander."
Paul muttered the name several times over, and by a train of thought which we will not attempt to follow or unravel, began humming to himself the well-known Irish ditty of--
"Teddy, ye gander, Yer like a Highlander."
He soon came to a stop in the words, but continued to sing the air, till at last he broke out in the following version of his own:--
"Paul Dempsey, ye gander, You 're like that Leander Who for somebody's daughter--for somebody's daughter Did not mind it one pin To be wet to the skin, With a dip in salt water--a dip in salt water.
"Were you wiser, 'tis plain, You 'd be now in Coleraine, A nightcap on your head--a nightcap on your head, With a jorum of rum, Made by old Mother Fum, At the side of your bed--at the side of your bed.
"For tho' love is divine, When the weather is fine, And a season of bliss--a season of bliss, 'Tis a different thing For a body to sing On a night such as this--a night such as this.
"Paul Dempsey! remember, On the ninth of December You 'll be just forty-six--you 'll be just forty-six, And the world will say That at your time o' day You 're too old for these tricks--you 're too old for these tricks.
"And tho' water may show One's love, faith, I know I 'd rather prove mine--I 'd rather prove mine With my feet on the fender; 'T is then I grow tender, O'er a bumper of wine--o'er a bumper of wine!
"A bumper of wine!" sighed he. "On my conscience, it would be an ugly toast I 'd refuse to drink this minute, if the liquor was near.