Tom. And what riches was left you by the death of your mother?
Teag. A bad luck to her old barren belly, for she lived in great plenty, and died in great poverty: devoured up all or she died, but two hens and a pockful of potatoes, a poor estate for an Irish gentleman, in faith.
Tom. And what did you make of your hens and potatoes, did you sow them?
Teag. Arra, dear shoy, I sowed them in my belly, and sold the hens to a cadger.
Tom. And what business did your mother follow after?
Teag. Greatly in the merchant way.
Tom. And what sort of goods did she deal in?
Teag. Dear honey, she went through the country and sold small fishes, onions and apples: bought hens and eggs, and then hatched them herself. I remember one long-necked cock she had of an oversea brood, that stood on the midden and picked all the stars out of the north-west so they were never so thick there since.
Tom. Now Pady, that’s a bull surpasses all: but is there none of that cock’s offspring alive in Ireland now?