Conan: Try now and tell me was it that
Aristotle, the time he walked Ireland, had come to
this place.
Mother: It might be that, unless it might be
some other thing.
Conan: And that he left some great treasure
hid—it might be in the rath without.
Mother: And what good would it do you a pot of
gold to be hid in the rath where you would never
come near to it, it being guarded by enchanted
cats and they having fiery eyes?
Conan: Did I say anything about a pot of
gold? This was better again than gold. This
was an enchantment would raise you up if you
were gasping from death. Give attention now ...
Aristotle.
Mother: It's Harry he used to be called.
Conan: Listen now. (Sings.) (Air, "Bells of
Shandon.")
"Once Aristotle hid in a bottle
Or some other vessel of security
A spell had power bring sweet from sour
Or bring blossoms blooming on the blasted tree."
Mother: (Repeating last line.) "Or bring blossoms
blooming on the blasted tree."
Conan: Is that now what you heard ...that
Aristotle has hid some secret spell?