From “Folk Tales of Breffny.”
By B. Hunt.
There was a fine young gentleman the name of M‘Carthy. He had a most beautiful countenance, and for strength and prowess there was none to equal him in the baronies of Connacht. But he began to dwine away, and no person knew what ailed him. He used no food at all and he became greatly reduced, the way he was not able to rise from his bed and he letting horrid groans and lamentations out of him. His father sent for three skilled doctors to come and find out what sort of disease it might be, and a big reward was promised for the cure.
Three noted doctors came on the one day and they searched every vein in young M‘Carthy’s body, but they could put no name on the sickness nor think of a remedy to relieve it. They came down from the room and reported that the disease had them baffled entirely.
“Am I to be at the loss of a son who is the finest boy in all Ireland?” says the father.
Now one of the doctors had a man with him who was a very soft-spoken person, and he up and says:
“Maybe your honours would be giving me permission to visit the young gentleman. I have a tongue on me is that sweet I do be drawing the secrets of the world out of men and women and little children.”
Well, they brought him up to the room and they left him alone with M‘Carthy. He sat down beside the bed and began for to flatter him. The like of such conversation was never heard before.
At long last he says, “Let your Lordship’s honour be telling—What is it ails you at all?”