“And be the same token that nate little colleen—what’s her name?”
“Kathleen O’Shaugnessy, yer honor,” said Michael; “that’s the wan yer honor must mane.”
“Aye, Kathleen smiles on ye, but ye’re too poor to go togither to the praste.”
“Yis, squire.”
“Thin I give yez both a foine chance to rise in the worruld, for I know that ye’re an honest couple and’ll not rob me whin I’m away. I’m going to lave Clonakilty.”
“Oh, squire.”
“Don’t go.”
“Musha, my God, phat’ll we do widout our pratees?”
“And the pigs at Michaelmas?”
“And the grain for me harse whin me feed runs out?”