My father commenced--'Ar'n't you ashamed
on yourself, Terence O'Brien?' 'Ar'n't you ashamed on yourself, Terence
O'Brien?' cried Father M'Grath. 'Ar'n't you ashamed on yourself?' cried
out all my brothers and sisters in full chorus, whilst my poor mother
put her apron to her eyes and said nothing. 'The devil a bit for myself,
but very much ashamed for you all,' replied I, 'to treat me in this
manner. What's the meaning of all this?' 'Haven't they seized my two
cows to pay for your toggery, you spalpeen?' cried my father. 'Haven't
they taken the hay to pay for your shoes and stockings?' cried Father
M'Grath. 'Haven't they taken the pig to pay for that ugly hat of yours?'
cried my eldest sister. 'And haven't they taken my hens to pay for that
dirk of yours?' cried another. 'And all our best furniture to pay for
your white shirts and black cravats?' cried Murdock, my brother. 'And
haven't we been starved to death ever since?' cried they all. 'Och
hone!' said my mother. 'The devil they have!' said I, when they'd all
done. 'Sure I'm sorry enough, but it's no fault of mine. Father, didn't
you send me to say?' 'Yes, you rapparee; but didn't you promise--or
didn't I promise for you, which is all one and the same thing--that
you'd pay it all back with your prize-money--and where is it? answer
that, Terence O'Brien.' 'Where is it, father? I'll tell you; it's where
next Christmas is--coming, but not come yet.' 'Spake to him, Father
M'Grath,' said my father. 'Is not that a lie of yours, Terence O'Brien,
that you're after telling now?' said Father McGrath; 'give me the
money.
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