THE LITTLE WEAVER OF DULEEK GATE.
There was a waiver lived, wanst upon a time, in Duleek here, hard by the gate, and a very honest, industherous man he was. He had a wife, and av coorse they had childhre, and plenty of them, and small blame to them, so that the poor little waiver was obleeged to work his fingers to the bone a’most to get them the bit and the sup, but he didn’t begridge that, for he was an industherous craythur, as I said before, and it was up airly and down late with him, and the loom never standin’ still.
Well, it was one mornin’ that his wife called to him, “Come here,” says she, “jewel, and ate your brekquest, now that it’s ready.” But he never minded her, but wint an workin’. So in a minit or two more, says she, callin’ out to him agin, “Arrah, lave off slavin’ yourself, my darlin’, and ate your bit o’ brekquest while it is hot.”
“Lave me alone,” says he, and he dhruv the shuttle fasther nor before. Well, in a little time more, she goes over to him where he sot, and says she, coaxin’ him like, “Thady, dear,” says she, “the stirabout will be stone cowld if you don’t give over that weary work and come and ate it at wanst.”
“I’m busy with a patthern here that is brakin’ my heart,” says the waiver; “and antil I complate it and masther it intirely I won’t quit”
“Oh, think of the iligant stirabout that ’ill be spylte intirely.”
“To the divil with the stirabout,” says he.
“God forgive you,” says she, “for cursin’ your good brekquest.”
“Ay, and you too,” says he.
“Throth, you’re as cross as two sticks this blessed morning, Thady,” says the poor wife; “and it’s a heavy handful I have of you when you are cruked in your temper; but stay there if you like, and let your stirabout grow cowld, and not a one o’ me ’ill ax you agin;” and with that off she wint, and the waiver, sure enough, was mighty crabbed, and the more the wife spoke to him the worse he got, which, you know, is only nath’ral. Well, he left the loom at last, and wint over to the stirabout; and what would you think but whin he looked at it, it was as black as a crow—for you see, it was in the hoighth o’ summer, and the flies lit upon it to that degree that the stirabout was fairly covered with them.