I turned to give one last look at the tall chimneys and the old woods, my earliest friends; but a turn of the road had shut out the prospect, and thus I took my leave of Galway.
My friend Mickey, who sat behind with the guard, participated but little in my feelings of regret.

The potatoes in the metropolis could scarcely be as wet as the lumpers in Scariff; he had heard that whiskey was not dearer, and looked forward to the other delights of the capital with a longing heart.

Meanwhile, resolved that no portion of his career should be lost, he was lightening the road by anecdote and song, and held an audience of four people, a very crusty-looking old guard included, in roars of laughter.
Mike had contrived, with his usual _savoir faire_, to make himself very agreeable to an extremely pretty-looking country girl, around whose waist he had most lovingly passed his arm under pretence of keeping her from falling, and to whom, in the midst of all his attentions to the party at large, he devoted himself considerably, pressing his suit with all the aid of his native minstrelsy.
"Hould me tight, Miss Matilda, dear." "My name's Mary Brady, av ye plase." "Ay, and I do plase.
'Oh, Mary Brady, you are my darlin', You are my looking-glass from night till morning; I'd rayther have ye without one farthen, Nor Shusey Gallagher and her house and garden.' May I never av I wouldn't then; and ye needn't be laughing." "Is his honor at home ?" This speech was addressed to a gaping country fellow that leaned on his spade to see the coach pass.
"Is his honor at home?
I've something for him from Mr.Davern." Mickey well knew that few western gentlemen were without constant intercourse with the Athlone attorney.

The poor countryman accordingly hastened through the fence and pursued the coach with all speed for above a mile, Mike pretending all the time to be in the greatest anxiety for his overtaking them, until at last, as he stopped in despair, a hearty roar of laughter told him that, in Mickey's _parlance_, he was "sould." "Taste it, my dear; devil a harm it'll do ye.

It never paid the king sixpence." Here he filled a little horn vessel from a black bottle he carried, accompanying the action with a song, the air to which, if any of my readers feel disposed to sing it, I may observe, bore a resemblance to the well-known, "A Fig for Saint Denis of France." POTTEEN, GOOD LUCK TO YE, DEAR.
Av I was a monarch in state, Like Romulus or Julius Caysar, With the best of fine victuals to eat, And drink like great Nebuchadnezzar, A rasher of bacon I'd have, And potatoes the finest was seen, sir, And for drink, it's no claret I'd crave, But a keg of ould Mullens's potteen, sir, With the smell of the smoke on it still.
They talk of the Romans of ould, Whom they say in their own times was frisky; But trust me, to keep out the cowld, The Romans at home here like whiskey.
Sure it warms both the head and the heart, It's the soul of all readin' and writin'; It teaches both science and art, And disposes for love or for fightin'.
Oh, potteen, good luck to ye, dear.
This very classic production, and the black bottle which accompanied it, completely established the singer's pre-eminence in the company; and I heard sundry sounds resembling drinking, with frequent good wishes to the provider of the feast,--"Long life to ye, Mr.Free," "Your health and inclinations, Mr.Free," etc.; to which Mr.Free responded by drinking those of the company, "av they were vartuous." The amicable relations thus happily established promised a very lasting reign, and would doubtless have enjoyed such, had not a slight incident occurred which for a brief season interrupted them.