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It had now come to my turn to contribute a story, and in answer to the children's appeal I told them that I would tell them all that I could remember of my old favourite mastiff, "Rory Bean," so-called after the Laird of Dumbiedike's pony in the "Heart of Midlothian." "Rory was a very large fawn mastiff, with the orthodox black mask.
Rory could n't get away from the strong probability that my grandfather had overpowered his own contemporary ancestor in the name of the Glorious, Pious and Immortal Memory, and had chopped his head off with a spade. He was willing to let bygones be bygones; but No more o' that, an thou lovest me!
But I won't let them see me cast down, and it is good to be huzzaing at all events. Huzza for Talbot! Talbot for ever! huzza! Enter WHEELER and BURSAL. Wheel. Who was that huzzaing for Talbot? Burs. Pooh, it is only Rory O'Ryan, or the roaring lion as I call him. Ha! ha! ha!
"No," she shook her head decidedly, "no, Gerry," she added, to take the sharp edge off her refusal, "no, Gerry; Rory won't." "You have only to lose by it, that is obvious, and I to gain, and nothing could equal the indecency of insistence on my part; but I feel that I am going to persist to the point of persecution. You are fond of me, you know.
The neat little dwellings of stone and slate that I observed to-day on the Lisselan estate are not let to the labourers, but are, with as much potato land as they can manure, thrown in with their wages, 11s. per week. They must now make way for people who will work, and are not afraid of "Rory of the Hills." Offers of help pour in upon Mr.
On the way back to dinner they spoke again of this difficulty of the boards. O'Flynn whistled "Rory O'More" with his pleasant air of detachment. "You and the others would take more interest in the subject," said the Boy a little hotly, "if we hadn't let you fellows use nearly all the boat-planks for your bunks, and now we haven't got any for our own." "Let us use 'em! Faith! we had a right to'm."
Sir Phelim was a civilian, bred to the profession of the law; Rory O'Moore, also, had never seen service; and although Colonel Owen O'Neil and others had promised to join them "at fourteen days' notice," a variety of accidents prevented the arrival of any officer of distinction during the brief remainder of that year.
They immediately recognized "the poor scholar," and in a moment were attempting to recover him. "Why thin, my poor fellow, what's a shaughran wid you?" Jemmy started for a moment, looked about him, and asked, "Where am I?" "Faitha, thin, you're in Rory Connor's field, widin a few perches of the high-road. But what ails you, poor boy? Is it sick you are?"
But the anomalous and baffling nature of Australian conditions made Rory all the more reluctant to tear himself away from his present asylum though its shelter seemed to resemble the shadow of a great deficit in an insolvent land. So another fortnight passed, whilst each of us learned something from the other.
The fair, well-fenced, and well-cultivated land of Leix was cruelly ravaged immediately after Ormond's release the common soldiers cut down with their swords "corn to the value of 10,000 pounds and upwards," and the brave chief, Owny, son of Rory, having incautiously exposed himself in an attack on Maryborough, was, on the 17th of August, killed by a musket shot.
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