But it's the illigant big figgur that I ave, for the
rason o' which all the ladies fall in love wid me. Isn't it my own
swate silf now that'll missure the six fut, and the three inches
more nor that, in me stockins, and that am excadingly will
proportioned all over to match? And it is ralelly more than three
fut and a bit that there is, inny how, of the little ould furrener
Frinchman that lives jist over the way, and that's a oggling and a
goggling the houl day, (and bad luck to him,) at the purty widdy
Misthress Tracle that's my own nixt-door neighbor, (God bliss her!)
and a most particuller frind and acquaintance? You percave the
little spalpeen is summat down in the mouth, and wears his lift hand
in a sling, and it's for that same thing, by yur lave, that I'm
going to give you the good rason.
The truth of the houl matter is jist simple enough; for the very
first day that I com'd from Connaught, and showd my swate little
silf in the strait to the widdy, who was looking through the windy, it
was a gone case althegither with the heart o' the purty Misthress
Tracle.
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