A great nostalgia for Ulster, for the whins and heather, choked him:
"S iomaidh bealach fliuch salach agas boithrin cam—
"There's many a wet muddy highways and crooked half-road, eader mise, between me, eader mise, eader mise—" He had forgotten.
"Between me and the townland that my desire is in," the Oran steersman prompted. "Eader mise agas an baile bhfuil mo dhuil ann!"
"Mind your bloody wheel," Shane warned. "This is a ship, not a poetry society. Look at the way you're letting her come up, you Highland bastard. Keep her off—and lam her!"
"Lam her it is, sir," the steersman grinned....