Fiddles and pipes were in busy requisition, and "The Boys of Rathfillan," the favorite local air, resounded in every direction.

And now that the master and the quality had made their appearance, of course the drink should soon follow, and in a short time the hints to that effect began to thicken.
"Thunder and turf, Jemmy, but this is dry work; my throat's like a lime-burner's wig for want of a drop o' something to help me for the cheerin'." Hould your tongue, Paddy; do you think the masther's honor would allow us to lose our voices in his behalf.

It's himself that hasn't his heart in a trifle, God bless him." "Ah, thin, your honor," said another fellow, in tatters, "isn't this dust and hate enough to choke a bishop?
O Lord, am I able to spake at all?
Upon my sowl, sir, I think there's a bonfire in my throath." Everything, however, had been prepared to meet these demands; and in about a quarter of an hour barrels of beer and kegs of whiskey were placed under the management of persons appointed to deal out their contents to the thirsty crowds.

Then commenced the dancing, whilst the huzzaing, shouting, jingling of bells, squeaking of fifes, blowing of horns, and all the other component parts of this wild melody, were once more resumed with still greater vigor.

The great feat of the night, however, so far as the people were concerned, was now to take place.
This was to ascertain, by superior activity, who among the young men could leap over the bonfire, when burnt down to what was considered such a state as might make the attempt a safe one.