Good old soul!
Keep on a-sellin’ your accursed stuff right under the marble nose of his statute if you want to, or pour whiskey over it, you can’t git nigh to him, this hero, this martyr, who give his life, and has now found it in glory.
But to resoom.
Wall, the next mornin’ we sot off in a carriage for Killarney.
There wuz some sort of a meetin’ that day, and the bells wuz a-ringin’ as we rode along.
Mebby amongst ’em wuz the Bells of Shandon.
I shouldn’t wonder; I sort o’ listened to the sound of ’em with my soul, but I d’no as I could recognize ’em so’s to tell ’em from the other bells.
Our souls hain’t learnt our mortal ears yet, as it would love to, as it will in the futer.
But it seemed as though I could hear as we rode along the Bells of Shandon.
And thoughts of what I’d seen in a face the day before kinder chimed in with the sweet, melancholy sounds.