“That post of yours isn't the pleasantest post in the world I think,” says she.
“I think not,” says he.
“Didn't I tell you, Bat—”
“Bad luck to every bit of you!” says he, interrupting her; “bad luck to you and your bull-rushes too, and all them that plays upon words! I know well enough of what you're going to remind me.”
“Bat,” says she, “it isn't a year since I—”
“Ah! now go away,” says he; “go away, now you've had your ends, and make up for the mischief, by calling some one to tie up the dogs,—or drive away the bull,—or bring a boat,—why can't you?”
The ould woman sat down, and smoked her pipe, and she and Bat had a little more confab this way across the stream; but, at last and in long run, he persuaded her to come to us here, and tell us how matters stood with Bat, and to beg us to help him off: not,—do you mind?—as I think, out of any humanity to the man, but to shew us how truly she'd foretould what was to happen him. I don't like her, so I'll say no good of her,—but this, namely,—she gave a poor boy who was upon the shaughran, without father or mother, house or home to his head, a penny and a blessing, when it's my belief, she'd little more to give. I say that,—for I'd like to give even a certain elderly gentleman, whose name I won't mention, his due,—much more a poor ould cunning-woman, that's weak flesh and blood, after all's said and done (though not a bit too good), like one's ownself.
Down came the woman, but she found few at home besides Mick Maguire, for a'most every mother's son that could move, had gone away to get Bat off his predicament before. Mick wouldn't go at all; for, he said, sure he was the bull bore a grudge against him, because he threw stones at his head, and bullied him once.
“Ah! but,” says somebody, “may be, he wouldn't notice you, Mick.”
“May be, he would though,” says Mick; “so it's go I won't.”