Any man that ever went the road to Killarney could not miss Peg the Damsel's new house.It was at the other side of the level crossing.Well, you couldn't miss that either for any time I ever went that way.One gate was open and the other gate was shut.They were always half expecting a train.Peg's house was done up to the veins of nicety.Down were windows out on the roof, variegated ridgetails, walls, pebble-dashed, what you could see of them,for they were nearly covered with ivy.And in the front garden, Peg had ridges of flowers, surrounded by a hedge.Oh, beautifully clipped.The barber couldn't do it nicer.And one nub of the hedge was allowed to grow up,and it was trained to give the effect of a woman sitting down,playing a concert.Peg herself, of course, for she was a dinger on the box.If you heard her playing the verse of Vianna,you'd never again want to turn on the wireless.How's this? She had it, um...Father Welch's, Father Welch's, Father Welch's top court.And he wore it, and he tore it, and he spoiled his top court.Diddly-ding-dee-day-oh!Diddly-ding-dee-day-dee!Diddly-ding-dee-day-do!Diddly-ding-dee-day!Diddly-ding-dee-day-do!She was brilliant.Now, of all the pauses in Peg's garden,the roses took the pride of place.She had roses there of every hue.She had June roses, tea roses, ramblers, and climbers.And at the back of Peg's house, there was a farmer living,and he had a goat running with the cows.Oh, a very destructive animal.And the goat came the way,and he broke into the garden,and he sampled the roses,and he liked them,and he made short work of them.Peg complained the goat to the farmer.What do you want him for?She said, with nine cows,sure you can be short of milk.Well, says the farmer, it isn't that at all.Do you see, goats are said to be lucky.And another thing is,they'll devour the injurious herb,and the cows will go there full time.If he follow me,you needn't be a small,small farmer to know that.You'll be doing full time, says Peg,if that goat don't conduct himself,for I'll have you up before the man in the white wig.Oh, play tough now, says the farmer,a man afraid of his life of litigation,for it can lighten the pocket.Play tough now, he said.I have a donkey chain there,and I'll shorten it down to make a fetters for the goat,which he did.But the goat, you see,when he got the timing of the fetters,the same as the two lads in the three-legged race,he was able to move,move as quick-witted as without it.Now, that'd be the same yearthat Peg married the returned yank.Or was it?It is so long ago now.Everything is gone away back in my pall.Twas a man that went in a fright for fancy shorts.And they do.One day is all the yank could keep the shirt on him.Look at that for a caper.And the woman, her fingers worn,to the bone-washing for him.Well, this morning, Peg the damsel,she washed out a red shirt,and she put a broad up on the hedge to dry.That was all right, no fault.Until the goat came the way.And handicapped in all as he was,he broke into the garden,attracted by the collar, I suppose,and he made short work of the shirt.Peg the damsel opened the front door just in timeto see the white button of the left cuffdisappearing down the goat's throttle.There was no good in calling the yank.He was above in Blanket Street.You see, all night work he had in New York,and he used to sleep during the day,and he had no night work at home.He used to sleep day and night.Peg had to go after the goat herself.And the goat, he hopped up in the ditch of the railway,and he ran down the incline,and when he was crossing over the railway tracks,it wouldn't happen again in the rain of cats.Didn't one link of the chain go down over the square-headed boltthat's pinning the rail-chair onto the tie?And he was held there, he couldn't move.And what was worse, the train was coming now,he heard it whistling.Oh, wasn't that a nice pucker for a goat to be in?And if he were there, he'd lose your heads,and so would I.But the goat didn't.What did he do?He coughed up the red shirt and flagged down the train.