Robin had plenty of gossips to spread the story of his wonderful adventure—Passage, Monkstown, Ringaskiddy, Seamount, Carrigaline—the whole barony of Kerricurrihy rung with it.
“Are you quite sure, Robin, it is young Phil Ronayne, you have brought back with you?” was the regular question; for although the boy had been seven years away, his appearance now was just the same as on the day he was missed. He had neither grown taller nor older in look, and he spoke of things which had happened before he was carried off as one awakened from sleep, or as if they had occurred yesterday.
“Am I sure? Well, that’s a queer question,” was Robin’s reply; “seeing the boy has the blue eyes of the mother, with the foxy hair of the father, to say nothing of the purly wart on the right side of his little nose.”
However Robin Kelly may have been questioned, the worthy couple of Ronayne’s court doubted not that he was the deliverer of their child from the power of the giant Mac Mahon; and the reward they bestowed upon him equalled their gratitude.
Philip Ronayne lived to be an old man; and he was remarkable to the day of his death for his skill in working brass and iron, which it was believed he had learned during his seven years’ apprenticeship to the giant Mahon Mac Mahon.
And now, farewell! the fairy dream is o’er;
The tales my infancy had loved to hear,
Like blissful visions fade and disappear.
Such tales Momonia’s peasant tells no more!
Vanish’d are MERMAIDS from the sea beat shore;
Check’d is the Headless Horseman’s strange career;
Fir Darrig’s voice no longer mocks the ear,
Nor ROCKS bear wondrous imprints as of yore!
Such is “the march of mind.” But did the fays
(Creatures of whim—the gossamers of will)
In Ireland work such sorrow and such ill
As stormier spirits of our modern days?
Oh land beloved! no angry voice I raise:
My constant prayer—“may peace be with thee still!”