‘’Tis very good as it is,’ says he; ‘but when I’m at home, I find it gives it a fine flavor just to boil a little knuckle o’ bacon, or mutton trotters, or anything that way along with it.’
‘Raich hether that bone o’ sheep’s head we had at dinner yesterday, Nell,’ says the man o’ the house.
‘Oyeh, don’t mind it,’ says my father; ‘let it be as it is.’
‘Sure if it improves it, you may as well,’ says they.
‘Baithershin!’ says my father, putting it down.
So after boiling it a good piece longer, ‘’Tis fine limestone broth,’ says he, ‘as ever was tasted, and if a man had a few piatez,’ says he, looking at a pot o’ them that was smoking in the chimney corner, ‘he couldn’t desire a better dinner.’
They gave him the piatez, and he made a good dinner of themselves and the broth, not forgetting the bone, which he polished equal to chaney before he let it go. The people themselves tasted it, an’ tho’t it as good as any mutton broth in the world.”