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'By my sowkins, says Nell, 'it's bad enough we are, your raverence, says she, 'for it's poor Jim's sperit, says she; 'God rest his sowl, wherever it is, says she, 'that was wandherin' up an' down, opossite the door all night, says she, 'in the way it was no use at all, thryin' to get a wink iv sleep, says she. 'It's to lay it, you want me, I suppose, says the priest.
"It's not my sowl," says he, sittin' down opossite my father; "it's not my sowl that's annoyin' me most I'm unasy on my right leg," says he, "that I bruk at Glenvarloch cover the day I killed black Barney." 'My father found out afther, it was a favourite horse that fell undher him, afther leapin' the big fence that runs along by the glin.
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