Here, a lark sprang up at his feet and darted into the air with its thrilling rush of exquisite moldy.―“Faith, you’ve given me my answer sure enough, my purty lark—that’s as much as to say, they may go whistle for them—oh, my poor fellows, how I pity yiz;”―and here he broke into a “too ra lal loo” and danced along the path:—then suddenly dropping into silence he resumed his walk, and applying his hand behind his head, cocked up his caubeen* and began to rub behind his ear, according to the most approved pleasant practice of assisting the powers of reflection.