Just the way it is all through the world; some has everything they want and more besides, and others hasn't a stitch to their backs, or maybe a pinch of tobacco to put in a pipe.' This appeal was timed by seeing that Walpole had just lighted a fresh cigar, whose fragrant fumes were wafted across the speaker's nose.
Firm to his determination to maintain silence, Walpole paid no attention to the speech, nor uttered a word of any kind; and as a light drizzling rain had now begun to fall, and obliged him to shelter himself under an umbrella, he was at length saved from his companion's loquacity.

Baffled, but not beaten, the old fellow began to sing, at first in a low, droning tone; but growing louder as the fire of patriotism warmed him, he shouted, to a very wild and somewhat irregular tune, a ballad, of which Walpole could not but hear the words occasionally, while the tramping of the fellow's feet on the foot-board kept time to his song:-- ''Tis our fun they can't forgive us, Nor our wit so sharp and keen; But there's nothing that provokes them Like our wearin' of the green.
They thought Poverty would bate us, But we'd sell our last "boneen" And we'll live on cowld paytatees, All for wearin' of the green.
Oh, the wearin' of the green--the wearin' of the green! 'Tis the colour best becomes us Is the wearin' of the green!' 'Here's a cigar for you, old fellow, and stop that infernal chant.' 'There's only five verses more, and I'll sing them for your honour before I light the baccy.' 'If you do, then, you shall never light baccy of mine.

Can't you see that your confounded song is driving me mad ?' 'Faix, ye're the first I ever see disliked music,' muttered he, in a tone almost compassionate.
And now as Walpole raised the collar of his coat to defend his ears, and prepared, as well as he might, to resist the weather, he muttered, 'And this is the beautiful land of scenery; and this the climate; and this the amusing and witty peasant we read of.

I have half a mind to tell the world how it has been humbugged!' And thus musing, he jogged on the weary road, nor raised his head till the heavy clash of an iron gate aroused him, and he saw that they were driving along an approach, with some clumps of pretty but young timber on either side.
'Here we are, your honour, safe and sound,' cried the driver, as proudly as if he had not been five hours over what should have been done in one and a half.

'This is Kilgobbin.