―What about paying our respects to our friend? says Joe.
―Who? says I. Sure, he’s in John of God’s off his head, poor man.
―Drinking his own stuff? says Joe.
―Ay, says I. Whisky and water on the brain.
―Come around to Barney Kiernan’s, says Joe. I want to see the citizen.
―Barney mavourneen’s be it, says I. Anything strange or wonderful, Joe?
―Not a word, says Joe. I was up at that meeting in the City Arms.
―What was that, Joe? says I.
―Cattle traders, says Joe, about the foot and mouth disease. I want to give the citizen the hard word about it.
So we went around by the Linenhall barracks and the back of the courthouse talking of one thing or another. Decent fellow Joe when he has it but sure like that he never has it. Jesus, I couldn’t get over that bloody foxy Geraghty, the daylight robber. For trading without a licence, says he.
In Inisfail the fair there lies a land, the land of holy Michan. There rises a watchtower beheld of men afar. There sleep the mighty dead as in life they slept, warriors and princes of high renown. A pleasant land it is in sooth of murmuring waters, fishful streams where sport the gunnard, the plaice, the roach, the halibut, the gibbed haddock, the grilse, the dab, the brill, the flounder, the mixed coarse fish generally and other denizens of the aqueous kingdom too numerous to be enumerated. In the mild breezes of the west and of the east the lofty trees wave in different directions their first class foliage, the wafty sycamore, the Lebanonian cedar, the exalted planetree, the eugenic eucalyptus and other ornaments