And now, they say, the wench, who is particular, not fancying a headless trunk, hath struck her colours and said yea to the next best man.

Poor lass! who's to blame her ?" "Not I," said the soldier, "albeit you are all wrong, mine host, about this quarrel, for I heard of it from Tom Price, the Captain's man.

It was this headless chief's brother the lass doated on.

But it's like enough she thinks the head was her sweetheart's." "There was a son of old Sorley's in the pageant to-day; a plaguey ill- favoured hound, who walked with his father," said the landlord, "with a face sour enough to curdle all the milk in Dublin." "That was Sir Ludar," said one of the strangers.

"I had it from one of the redshanks." "Ludar ?" said the soldier; "the very man.