“St Patrick, it seems, was one Sunday morning crossing a mountain on his way to a chapel to say mass, and as he was an humble man (coaches wern’t then invented, at any rate) an’ a great pedestrium (pedestrian), he took the shortest cut across the mountain. In one of the lonely glens he met a herd-caudy, who spent his time in eulogizin’ his masther’s cattle, according to the precepts of them times, which was not by any means so larned an’ primogenitive as now. The countenance of the dog was clear an’ extremely sabbathical; every thing was at rest barring the little river before him, an’ indeed one would think that it flowed on with more decency an’ betther behaviour than upon other sympathising occasions. The birds, to be sure, were singin’, but it was aisy to see that they chirped out their best notes in honour of the day. ‘Good morrow on you,’ said St Patrick; ‘what’s the raison you’re not goin’ to prayers, my fine little fellow?’
‘What’s prayers?’ axed the boy. St Patrick looked at him with a very pitiful and calamitous expression in his face. ‘Can you bless yourself?’ says he. ‘No,’ said the boy. ‘I don’t know what it means?’ ‘Worse and worse,’ thought St Patrick.
‘Poor bouchal, it isn’t your fault. An how do you pass your time here?’
‘Why, my mate (food) ’s brought to me, an’ I do be makin’ kings’ crowns out of my rushes, whin I’m not watching the cows an’ sheep.’
St Patrick sleeked down his head wid great dereliction, an’ said, ‘Well, acushla, you do be operatin’ kings’ crowns, but I tell you you’re born to wear a greater one than a king’s, an’ that is a crown of glory. Come along wid me.’
‘I can’t lave my cattle,’ said the other, ‘for fraid they might go astray.’
‘Right enough.’ replied St Patrick, ‘but I’ll let you see that they won’t.’ Now, any how St Patrick undherstood cattle irresistibly himself, havin’ been a herd-caudy (boy) in his youth; so he clapped his thumb to his thrapple, an’ gave the Soy-a-loa to the sheep, an’ behould you they came about him wid great relaxation an’ respect. ‘Keep yourselves sober an’ fictitious,’ says he, addressin’ them, ‘till this boy comes back, an’ don’t go beyant your owner’s property; or if you do, it’ll be worse for yez. If you regard your health durin’ the approximatin’ season, mind an’ attend to my words.’
Now, you see, every sheep, while he was spakin’, lifted the right fore leg, an’ raised the head a little, an’ behould when he finished, they kissed their foot, an’ made him a low bow as a mark of their estimation an’ superfluity. He thin clapped his finger an’ thumb in his mouth, gave a loud whistle, an’ in a periodical time he had all the other cattle on the hill about him, to which he addressed the same ondeniable oration, an’ they bowed to him wid the same polite gentility. He then brought the lad along wid him, an’ as they made progress in the journey, the little fellow says,
‘You seem frustrated by the walk, an’ if you’ll let me carry your bundle, I’ll feel obliged to you.’
‘Do so,’ said the saint; ‘an’ as it’s rather long, throw the bag that the things are in over your shoulder; you’ll find it the aisiest way to carry it.’