A NATIVE who heard an Englishman speaking of the fine echo at the Lake of Killarney, which repeats the sound forty times, he very promptly observed, “Faith, that’s nothing at all to the echo in my father’s garden in the county of Galway. If you say to it, ‘How do you do, Paddy Blake?’ it will answer, ‘Pretty well, I thank you, sir.’ ”
An English gentleman was writing a letter in a coffee-house, and perceiving that an Irishman stationed behind him had been looking over his shoulder, he concluded with these words: “I would say more, but a tall Irishman is reading over my shoulder every word I write,” “You lie, you scoundrel!” exclaimed the Hibernian.
Whenever you see a herd of cows all lying down, and one of them only standing up, that one is sure to be a bull.
“How is coal this morning?” said a purchaser to an Irishman in a coal-yard. “Black as iver,” replied Patrick, respectfully taking off the remains of his hat.
“Pat, if Mr. Jones come before my return, tell him that I will meet him at two o’clock,” “Aye, aye, sir. But what shall I tell him if he don’t come?”
A wounded Irishman wrote home from the hospital, and finished up by saying, “I’m for this country. I’ve bled for it, and I’ll soon be able to say I’ve died for it.”
“Paddy, do you know how to drive? said a traveller to the driver of a jaunting car. “Sure I do,” was the answer. “Wasn’t it I upset yer honour in a ditch two years ago?”
A gentleman having purchased an alarm clock, an acquaintance asked him what he intended to do with it. “Och,” answered he, “sure I’ve nothing to do but pull the string and wake myself.”
As Pat Hogan sat enjoying his connubial bliss upon the banks of a Southern creek, he espied a turtle emerging from the stream. “Ochone!” he exclaimed solemnly, “that iver I should come to America to see a snuff-box walk.” “Whist!” said his wife, “don’t be afther making fun of the birds.”
A traveller came upon an Irishman who was fencing in a most barren and desolate piece of land. “What are you fencing in that lot for, Pat?” said he. “A herd of cows would starve to death on that land.” “And shure, your honour, wasn’t I fincing it to keep the poor bastes out iv it?”
HALF A DOZEN BULLS. — A merry evening party, in an English country town, were bantering poor Teddy about his countrymen being so famous for bulls.
“By my faith,” said Teddy, “you needn’t talk about that same in this place. You’re as fond of bulls as any people in all the world, so you are. In this paltry bit of a town you’ve got more public houses nor I ever seen wid the sign of the bull over the doore, so you have. I’m sure I can count half a dozen of them.”
“Pooh, nonsense!” cried the party. “That’ll never do. 70 What will you bet on that, Teddy? You’re out there, my boy, depend upon it. We know the town as well as you, and so what will you bet?”
“Indeed, my brave boys, I’ll not bet at all; I’m no better, I assure you — I should be worse if I were.” This sally tickled his companions, and he proceeded, “But I’ll be bound to name and count the six. There’s the Black Bull.”
“That’s one. Go on.”
“And the Red Bull.”
“That’s two. Go on.”
“And the White Bull — and the Pied Bull.”
“That’s four. You can’t go much further.”
“And there’s the — there’s — there’s — the Golden Bull in — what’s it street?”
“Well done, Teddy; that’s five, sure enough. But you’re short yet.”
“Aye,” said a little letter-carrier, who sat smirking in the corner; “and he will be short, for there isn’t one more, I know.”
“And thin, remember,” continued Teddy, carefully pursuing his enumeration, “there’s the Dun Cow.”
At this a burst of laughter fairly shook the room, and busy hands kept the tables and glasses rattling, amidst boisterous cries of “A bull! a bull!”
Looking serious at all around, Teddy deliberately asked, “Do you call that a bull?”
“To be sure it’s a bull,” they exclaimed.
“Then,” said Teddy, “that’s the sixth.”