There Is Lasting Kindness In Heaven When

It's A Grand Thing To Be Able To Take Your Money In Your Hand And To Think No More Of It When It Slips Away From You Than You Would A Trout That Would Slip Back Into The Stream.

Well, There's No One At All, They Do Be Saying, But Is Deserving Of Some Punishment From The Very Minute Of His Birth.

It Is What The Poets Of Ireland Used To Be Saying, That Every Brave Man, Good At Fighting, And Every Man That Could Do Great Deeds And Not Be Making Much Talk About Them, Was Of The Sons Of The Gael; And That Every Skilled Man That Had Music And That Did Enchantments Secretly, Was Of The Tuatha De Danaan.

In My Childhood There Was Every Year At My Old Home, Roxborough, Or, As It Is Called In Irish, Cregroostha, A Great Sheep-shearing That Lasted Many Days. On The Last Evening There Was Always A Dance For The Shearers And Their Helpers, And Two Pipers Used To Sit On Chairs Placed On A Corn-bin To Make Music For The Dance.

I Don't Know In The World Why Anyone Would Consent To Be A King, And Never To Be Left To Himself, But To Be Worried And Wearied And Interfered With From Dark To Daybreak And From Morning To The Fall Of Night.