“The Lord bless your honour every morning you rise, 'tis the iligant little place ye gave me to live in. Musha, 'tis happy and comfortable I do be every night, now, barrin' that the slates does be falling betimes—bad luck to them for slates, one of them cut little Joe's head this morning, and I brought him up for a bit of a plaster.”
This was the address of a stout, middle-aged woman, with a man's great coat around her in lieu of a cloak.
“Slates falling—why doesn't your husband fasten them on again? he said he was a handy fellow, and could do any thing about a house.”
“It was no lie then; Thady Morris is a good warrant for a job any day, and if it was thatch was on it——”
“Thatch—why, woman, I'll have no thatch; I don't want the cabins burned down, nor will I have them the filthy hovels they used to be.”
“Why would your honour?—sure there's rayson and sinse agin it,” was the chorus of all present, while the woman resumed—
“Well, he tried that same too, your honour, and if he did, by my sowl, it was worse for him, for when he seen the slates going off every minit with the wind, he put the harrow on the top—”
“The harrow—put the harrow on the roof?”
“Just so—wasn't it natural? But as sure as the wind riz, down came the harrow, and stript every dirty kippeen of a slate away with it.”
“So the roof is off,” said Sir Marmaduke with stifled rage.