“A foine creachure, an’ very rayfined, only a bit too fond of crying an’ wailing,” says Shaun.
“Musha, I know several livin’ women that cap fits,” says the knowledgeable man. “Sure, does she do nothin’ but wail death keens? Has she no good love-ballads or songs like that? I’d think she’d grow tired,” he says.
“Arrah, don’t be talkin’!” says Shaun. “’Tis she who can sing them. She has one in purticular—the ballad of ‘Mary McGinnis’—that I wisht ye could hear her at,” he says.
“The song has three splendid chunes to it, an’ the chune changes at aich varse. I wisht I had it all, but I’ll sing yez what I have,” he says. With that the head began to sing, an’ a foine, deep singin’ woice it had, too, only maybe a little too roarin’ for love-ballads:
Likewise ye decayvers be land or be sea;
I hope that ye’ll listen with pity to me
Since the jew’l of me life is a thraitor.”
“Here’s where the chune changes,” says the head, lickin’ his lips.
