'Faith it is no such thing: it is very weak.' 'Did Mick sell his cows to-day at the fair?' 'Faith I don't know.' People who shrink from the plain word often soften it to faix or haith (or heth in Ulster). An intelligent contributor makes the remark that the use of this word faith (as above) is a sure mark of an Irishman all over the world.
Even some of the best men will occasionally, in an unguarded moment or in a hasty flash of anger, give way to the swearing instinct. Father John Burke of Kilfinane—I remember him well—a tall stern-looking man with heavy brows, but really gentle and tender-hearted—held a station at the house of our neighbour Tom Coffey, a truly upright and pious man. All had gone to confession and Holy Communion, and the station was over. Tom went out to bring the priest's horse from the paddock, but in leading him through a gap in the hedge the horse stood stock still and refused obstinately to go an inch farther. Tom pulled and tugged to no purpose, till at last his patience went to pieces, and he flung this, in no gentle voice, at the animal's head:—'Blast your sowl will you come on!' Just then unluckily Father Burke walked up behind: he had witnessed and heard all, and you may well say that Tom's heart dropped down into his shoes; for he felt thoroughly ashamed. The crime was not great; but it looked bad and unbecoming under the circumstances; and what could the priest do but perform his duty: so the black brows contracted, and on the spot he gave poor Tom down-the-banks and no mistake. I was at that station, though I did not witness the horse scene.
