Lynch.
"That's exactly what I wish."
"And he continued--'Saint Swithin was not that kind of priest, no such
thing; for he did nothing but pray from morning to night, so that he
brought a blessing on the whole country round; and could cure all sorts
of diseases, and was so charitable that he'd give away the shirt off his
back. Then, whenever he went out, it was quite plain and sober, on a
rough little _mountainy garran_; and he thought himself grand entirely
if his big _ould_ fashioned boots got a rub of the _grase_. It was no
wonder he should be called the blessed priest, and that the people far
and near should flock to him to mass and confession; or that they
thought it a blessed thing to have him lay his hands on their heads.
It's a pity the likes of him should ever die, but there's no help for
death; and sure if he wasn't so good entirely he'd have been left, and
not be taken away as he was; for 'tis them that are most wanting the
first to go. The news of his death flew about like lightning; and there
was nothing but _ullagoning_ through all the country, and they had no
less than right, for they lost a good friend the day he died.
Pages:
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52