“Och, an’ faix it’s myself that can tell all about those things. Shure my grandfather was brother to one of the ould anshint bards who left him all his books, and he left them to my mother, who left them to me.” “Well, Mr Mowlds,” I said, “you must have a perfect knowledge of those things--let us hear something of their contents.” “Why, thin, shure, sur, I can’t do less. Now, you see, sur, it’s my fashion like the priests and ministhers goin’ to praich: they must give a bit ov a text out ov some larned book, and that’s the way with me. So here goes--mind the words: “The seventeenth ov March, on King Dermot’s great table, Where ninety-nine beeves were all roast at a time, We dhrank to the memory, while we wor able, Ov Pathrick, the saint ov our nation; And gaily wor dhrinkin’, roarin’, shoutin’, Cead mille faltha, acushla machree. There was Cathleen so fair, an’ Elleen so rare! With Pathrick an’ Nora, An’ flauntin’ Queen Dorah! On Pathrick’s day in the mornin’. Whoo!!! County Kildare an’ the sky over it! Short grass for ever!” He thus ended with a kick up of his heel which nearly touched the nape of his neck, and a flourish of his stick at the same time. Then turning to me he said, “I am not going to tell you one word about the fire--I am going to tell you how Saint Bridget got all this ground. Bad luck to _Black Noll_ (a name given to Cromwell) with his crew ov dirty Sasanachs that tore down the church; and if they could have got on the tower, that would be down also. No matther--every dog will have his day. Sit down on this hill till we have a shaugh ov the dhudheen. In this hill lie buried all the bones ov the poor fellows that Gefferds killed the time ov the throuble, peace an’ rest to their souls!” “But to the story, Mr Mowlds,” I said, as I watched him with impatience while he readied his pipe with a large pin. “Well, sur, here goes. Bad luck to this touch, it’s damp: the rain blew into my pocket t’other night an’ wetted it--ha, I have it. Now, sur, you persave by the words ov my text that a great feast was kept up every year at the palace of Castledermot on Saint Pathrick’s day. Nothing was to be seen for many days before but slaughtering ov bullocks, skiverin’ ov pullets, rowlin’ in ov barrels, an’ invitin’ all the quolity about the counthry; nor did the roolocks and spalpeens lag behind--they never waited to be axt; all came to lind a frindly hand at the feast; nor war the kings ov those days above raisin’ the ax to slay a bullock. King O’Dermot was one ov those slaughtherin’ kings who wouldn’t cringe at the blood ov any baste. ’Twas on one ov those festival times that he sallied out with his ax in his hand to show his dexterity in the killin’ way. The butchers brought him the cattle one afther another, an’ he laid them down as fast as they could be dhrained ov their blood.