It ravelling nortime, giving a o a farmer noime of telling ories and making   weddings.

    o overtake on to Collooney one Margaret Rooney, a er  time, and it  routed  of t last. ting back t , so Sligo, to tory as op in to to Mary Gillis, s, so  be afraid of not getting good treatment, and all t ories and o all the parishes of Ireland.

    o go o find a o be listening to tory of roubles and to be comforting   t of t  old une of ting of t sher.

    t in talk all to t near crying to t a name in the house.

    o settle doired tle cabin fallen in, and Mary Lavelle gone from it, and tctered, o opped long enougo see to see t ed w sown.

    It , and a fire in time, and  on table  the asking.

    , t of t some ance, and some  Ireland and her.

    Every evening to ten to ories about time of t t  o every tern in t.  t time.

    One evening of December tle song t ain, about t  Limerick, and t ray in all parts of t nigtle lads t  in, and sat on too busy ing of a potato in to take mucice of  terewasch.

    And t ts of the dreams of men.

    Of a sudden opped, and y as if  some far thing.

    Mary Gillis  stood on a table beside  off pouring and said, Is it of leaving us you are thinking?

    Margaret Rooney  s knooo muc and came over to  t so lose so  and so good a comrade, and a man t  so muc brougo her house.

    You  go away from us, my ? sche hand.

    It is not of t I am t of Ireland and t of grief t is on  o sing the wind in a lonely place.

    trees break in tter black  blo ree in a black   of ter of hoolihan.

    tones for all t Maeve can say; Angers t are like noisy clouds  our s abeat, But  feet Of Cater of hoolihan.

    t  of ters our bodies and our blood, But purer tall candle before ter of hoolihan.

    o break, and tears came rolling do doer t t cried tears down.