I agreed without hesitation, and on opening the dusty and smoke-begrimed volume found that it was “Sir Charles Coote’s Statistical Survey of the Queen’s County,” printed in Dublin by Graisberry and Campbell, and published by direction of the Dublin Society in the year 1801. Although well aware that the dry details of a work professedly and almost exclusively statistical, were little calculated to amuse or interest _such_ an audience, yet, as the library of an Irish peasant is always unfortunately scanty, and in this instance, with the exception of a few trifling works on religious subjects, limited to the book in question, I determined to make the best I could of it, and for that purpose opened it at Sir Charles’s description of the immediate district in which we were situated, namely, the barony of Maryborough West, and town-land of Killeany. I read on thus:--“On Sir Allen Johnson’s estate stand the ruins of Killeany Castle; the walls are injudiciously built of very bad stones, though excellent quarry is contiguous. … Poor-man’s Bridge over the Nore was lately widened, and is very safe, but I cannot learn the tradition why it was so called.” “Read that again, sir,” said a fine grey-headed, patriarchal old man who was present; “read that again,” said he emphatically. I did so. “_He_ cannot learn the tradition of Poor-man’s Bridge, _inagh_!” said the old man with a sneer; “faith, I believe not; I’d take his word for more nor that. But had he come to me when he was travelling the country making up his statisticks, I could open his eyes on that subject, and many others too.” Some of those present laughed outright at the old man’s gravity of manner as he made this confident boast. “You need not laugh--you may shut your potato-traps,” said the old man indignantly. “Grand as he was, with his gold and silver, his coach and horses, and servants with gold and scarlet livery, I could enlighten him more on the ancient history and traditions of our country than all the _boddaghs_ of squireens whom he visited on his tour through the Queen’s County.” These assertions served only to increase the storm of ridicule which was gathering around the old man’s head; and to put a stop to any bad blood which the occasion might call forth, I requested of him to tell us the tradition of “the Boccough Ruadh.” After some wheedling and flattery he complied, and told a curious story, of which the following is the substance.