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Many a time, of a winter night, when seated at her spinning-wheel, singing the Trougha, or Shuil agra, or some other old "song of sorrow," have I, then little more than a child, gone over to her, and with a broken voice and eyes charged with tears, whispered, "Mother dear, don't sing that song, it makes me sorrowful;" she then usually stopped, and sung some one which I liked better because it affected me less.
"The Uligone, Connor, or Shuilagra, or the Trougha for, avourneen, avourneen, there must be sorrow in it, for my heart's low, and your mother's heart's in sorrow, an' she's lyin' far from us, an' her boy's not near her, an' her heart's sore, sore, and her head achin', bekase her boy's far from her, and she can't come to him!"
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