Then he told me that a brother of his who is a stoker in the Navy
had come home a little while before his father died, and that he had
spent all his money in having a fine funeral, with plenty of drink
at it, and tobacco.
'My brother has been a long way in the world,' he said, 'and seen
great wonders. He does be telling us of the people that do come out
to them from Italy, and Spain, and Portugal, and that it is a sort
of Irish they do be talking - not English at all - though it is only a
word here and there you'd understand.'
When we had dug out enough of roots from the deep crannies in the
rocks where they are only to be found, I gave my companion a few
pence, and sent him back to his cottage.
The old man who tells me the Irish poems is curiously pleased with
the translations I have made from some of them.
He would never be tired, he says, listening while I would be reading
them, and they are much finer things than his old bits of rhyme.
