It mayn’t be so much of a place whin ye reckon by land--Inish Fay-- Just a thrifle o’ fields and a bog like; but if ye considher the say, Sure we’ve lashins an’ lavins o’ that, spreadin’ out and away like a floor To Ratheen at the end of our bay, that’s as far as ye’ll look from your door, An’ that far ye’d scarce look in a week to the west, where there isn’t, I’m tould, One dhry step ’twixt yer fut an’ the States; sartin ’tis the long waves do come rowled Same as if they’d set out from the back o’ beyant an’ was thryin’ how each Could swell up to the sizeablest bigness afore it lapt o’er on the beach. Ay, we’ve plenty enough o’ the say, an’ good luck to’t; I don’t understand How the folk ke…
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