Exclamations of pain from the sick
or lame, thumping oaths in Irish, recriminations in broken English, and
prayers in bog Latin, all rose at once to the ears of the patron
saint, who, we are inclined to think--could he have heard or seen his
worshippers--would have disclaimed them altogether.
"For the sake of the Holy Virgin, keep your sharp elbows out o' my
ribs."
"My blessin' an you, young man, an' don't be lanin' an me, i' you
plase!"
"_Damnho sherry orth a rogarah ruah!_* what do you mane? Is it my back
you're brakin'?"
* Eternal perdition on you, you red rogue.
"Hell pershue you, you ould sinner, can't you keep the spike of your
crutch out o' my stomach! If you love me tell me so; but, by the livin'
farmer, I'll take no such hints as that!"
"I'm a pilgrim, an' don't brake my leg upon the rock, an' my blessin' an
you!"
"Oh, murdher sheery! my poor child'll be smothered!"
"My heart's curse an you! is it the ould cripple you're trampin' over?"
"Here, Barny, blood alive, give this purty young girl a lift, your sowl,
or she'll soon be undhermost!"
"'Och, 'twas on a Christmas mornin'
That Jeroosillim was born in
The Holy Land'----'
"Oh, my neck's broke!--the curse----Oh! I'm kilt fairly, so I am! The
curse o' Cromwell an you, an' hould away--
'The Holy Land adornin'
All by the Baltic Say.
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