At a station in Down, I think,
a gentleman got into our compartment who was in the good-natured stage
of tipsyness. He seemed to labor under the impression that I had, in
company with my brother, canvassed eagerly for Colonel Knox at the
Tyrone election. He felt called upon to tell me some home truths, the
bitterness of which he qualified with nods and smiles. "We bate your
Colonel Knox, mem, in spite of you and your brother. Thank God for the
ballot, mem, we can vote according to our own consciences, mem, not as
we're told as it used to be, mem. You and your party think you have all
the sense and learning and religion in Ireland, mem. All your religion
is in your song, 'We'll kick the Pope before us.' All your learning,
mem, is to hold up King William a decent man and abuse King James at the
Orange meetings in Scrabba where your brother speaks. You and your kind
need to know nothing but what happened in '98 and only one side of that.
What happens in '81, mem, you hold your noses too high to notice." In
this manner my tipsy friend ran on until the train stopped at Lisburn,
when he left with a parting benediction.
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