_Frenchman._ Monsieur, pardon, monsieur--
_Patrick. (Angrily)._ By my sowl, if it was you was in disthress, and if it was to owld Ireland you came, it's not only the gridiron they'd give you, if you axed it, but something to put on it too, and a dhrop of dhrink into the bargain. Can't you understand your own language? (_Very slowly._) Parley--voo--frongsay--munseer?
_Frenchman._ Oui, monsieur; oui, monsieur, mais--
_Patrick._ Then lend me the loan of a gridiron, I say, and bad scram to you.
_Frenchman (bowing and scraping)._ Monsieur, je ne l'entend--
_Patrick._ Phoo! the divil sweep yourself and your long tongs! I don't want a tongs at all, at all. Can't you listen to rason?
_Frenchman._ Oui, oui, monsieur: certainement, mais--
_Patrick._ Then lind me the loan of a gridiron, and howld your prate. (_The Frenchman shakes his head, as if to say he did not understand; but Patrick, thinking he meant it as a refusal, says, in a passion:_) Bad cess to the likes o' you! Throth, if you were in my counthry, it's not that-a-way they'd use you. The curse o' the crows on you, you owld sinner! The divil another word I'll say to you. (_The Frenchman puts his hand on his heart, and tries to express compassion in his countenance._) Well, I'll give you one chance more, you old thafe! Are you a Christhian, at all, at all? Are you a furriner that all the world calls so p'lite? Bad luck to you! do you understand your mother tongue? Parley voo frongsay? (_Very loud._) Parley voo frongsay?
_Patrick._ Then, thunder and turf! will you lind me the loan of a gridiron? (_The Frenchman shakes his head, as if he did not understand; and Pat says, vehemently:_) The curse of the hungry be on you, you owld negarly villian! the back of my hand and the sowl of my fut to you! May you want a gridiron yourself yet! and wherever I go, it's high and low, rich and poor, shall hear of it, and be hanged to you!
This fine poem is full of points for brilliant declamation; at times there should be a flow of rapid narration, rising frequently into shouts of exultation:
Come, see the good ship's anchor forged--'tis at a white heat now: The bellows ceased, the flames decreased--though on the forge's brow The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound, And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round; All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare-- Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there.