So Fingal ran into his house, and called to his wife Shaya, 'My vourneen,' says he, 'be quick now; there's that big bully of a Scotchman coming up the hill.

Kiver me up with the blankets, and if he asks who is in bed, tell him it's the child.' So Fingal laid down on the bed, and his wife had just time to cover him up, when in comes the Scotchman, and though he stooped low, he broke his head against the portal.

'Where's that baste Fingal ?' says he, rubbing his forehead; 'show him to me, that I may give him a bating.' 'Whisht, whisht!' cries Shaya, 'you'll wake the babby, and then him that you talk of bating will be the death of you, if he comes in.' 'Is that the babby ?' cried the Scotchman with surprise, looking at the great carcass muffled up in the blankets.

'Sure it is,' replied Shaya, 'and Fingal's babby too; so don't you wake him, or Fingal will twist your neck in a minute.' 'By the cross of St Andrew,' replied the giant, 'then it's time for me to be off; for if that's his babby, I'll be but a mouthful to the fellow himself.

Good morning to ye.' So the Scotch giant ran out of the house, and never stopped to eat or drink until he got back to his own hills, foreby he was nearly drowned in having mistaken his passage across the Channel in his great hurry.