Tom. And what manner of cry is that, Pady?
Teag. Dear Tom, if you don’t know, I’ll tell you, when any dies, there is a number of criers goes before, saying, Luff, fuff, fou, allelieu, dear honey, what aileth thee to die! it was not for want of good buttermilk and potatoes.
PART III.
Tom. Well Pady, and what did you do when your wife died?
Teag. Dear honey, what would I do: do you think I was such a big fool as to die too, I am sure, If I had I would not have got fair play, when I am not so old yet as my father was when he died.
Tom. No, Pady, it is not that I mean, was you sorry, or did you weep for her?
Teag. Weep for her; by shaint Patrick I would not weep nor yet be sorry, suppose my own mother and all the women in Ireland had died seven years before I was born.
Tom. What did you do with your children when she died?
Teag. Do you imagine I was such a big fool as bury my children alive, along with a dead woman: Arra, dear honey, we always commonly give nothing along with a dead person, but an old shirt, a winding sheet, a big hammer, with a long candle, and an Irish silver three-penny piece?