A general chorus of “Oh, musha, musha,” was now heard through the room; but whether in grief over the sad fate of the dying man, or the unflinching severity of the priest, is hard to say.
“I die in peace with all my neighbours and all mankind!”
Another chorus of the company seemed to approve these charitable expressions.
“I bequeath unto my son, Peter—and never was there a better son, or a decenter boy!—have you that down? I bequeath unto my son, Peter, the whole of my two farms of Killimundoonery and Knocksheboorn, with the fallow meadows behind Lynch’s house; the forge, and the right of turf on the Dooran bog. I give him, and much good may it do him, Lanty Cassarn’s acre, and the Luary field, with the limekiln—and that reminds me that my mouth is just as dry; let me taste what ye have in the jug.”
Here the dying man took a very hearty pull, and seemed considerably refreshed by it.
“Where was I, Billy Scanlan?” says he; “oh, I remember, at the limekiln; I leave him—that’s Peter, I mean—the two potato-gardens at Noonan’s Well; and it is the elegant fine crops grows there.”
“An’t you gettin’ wake, father, darlin’?” says Peter, who began to be afraid of my father’s loquaciousness; for, to say the truth, the punch got into his head, and he was greatly disposed to talk.
“I am, Peter, my son,” says he, “I am getting wake; just touch my lips again with the jug. Ah, Peter, Peter, you watered the drink!”
“No, indeed, father, but it’s the taste is leavin’ you,” says Peter; and again a low chorus of compassionate pity murmured through the cabin.
“Well, I’m nearly done now,” says my father; “there’s only one little plot of ground remaining, and I put it on you, Peter—as ye wish to live a good man, and die with the same asy heart I do now—that ye mind my last words to ye here. Are ye listening? Are the neighbours listening? Is Billy Scanlan listening?”