likes of me, poor Tom Mulligan, the ballad-maker, that your riverence’d be wanting.”
Hearing them words, the King looked mighty plazed. “If you’re Tom Mulligan, the ballad-maker,” he says, coming over smiling, “it’s proud and happy I am to meet you! I’m no less than Brian Connors, the King of the Good People,” he says, dhrawing himself up and trying to look grand. “It’s many’s the fine ballad of yours we sing in Sleive-na-mon.”
“But little Patsy,” stammered Tom; “sure your Majesty wouldn’t take him from us; he’s our twelfth and rounds out the dozen, you know.”
“Have no fear,” says the fairy; “Patsy’ll be here safe and sound at nightfall. If you stand friend to me this day the divil a friend you’ll ever need agin as long as you live!” With that the King up and tould him all the day’s happenin’s and misfortunes. Tom could hardly belave his eyes or his ears. He was so happy he begun in his mind making a ballad about himself and the King that minute.
“Ow!” says the King, bending his back and houlding his head, “whin I think of the ondacencies I wint true this day!”
