Howsomever--ha, ha, ha--Father Soolaghan was one
day ridin' past upon his horse, an' seein' the crathur lyin' undher the
shed, on a whisp o' straw, he pulls bridle, an' puts the spake on the
poor sthranger. So, begad, it came out, that the neighbors were very
kind to him, an' used to hand over whatsomever they thought best for him
from the back o' the ditch, as well as they could.
"'My poor fellow,' said the priest, 'you're badly off for linen.'
"'Thrue for you, sir,' said the sick man, 'I never longed for anything
so much in my life, as I do for a clane shirt an' a glass o' whiskey.'
"'The devil a glass o' whiskey I have about me, but you shall have
the clane shirt, you poor compassionate crathur,' said the priest,
stretchin' his neck up an' down to make sure there was no one comin' on
the road--ha, ha, ha!
"Well an' good--'I have three shirts,' says his Reverence, 'but I have
only one o' them an me, an' that you shall have.'
"So the priest peels himself on the spot, an' lays his black coat and
waistcoat afore him acrass the saddle, thin takin' off his shirt, he
threw it acrass the ditch to the sick man. Whether it was the white
shirt, or the black coat danglin' about the horse's neck, the divil a
one o' myself can say, but any way, the baste tuck fright, an' made off
wid Father Soolaghan, in the state I'm tellin' yez, upon his back--ha,
ha, ha!
"Parra Gastha, here, an' I war goin' up at the time to do a little in
the distillin' way for Tom Duggan of Aidinasamlagh, an' seen what was
goin' an.
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