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Updated: May 9, 2025
"I think I'll do it better knalin', your Honour," said he, "the way I did when I fired at Lord Blarney's land-agent, from behind the hedge, for lettin' a farm to a Belfast heretic. Oh! didn't I riddle him, your Honour." He paused a moment, his tongue had run away with him. "His coat, I main," said he. "I cut the skirts off as nait as a tailor could.
Blarney's no go with him. Faith, it's like trying to butter short-bread with the thermometer at zero. By Jove, there he is ahead of us. Alister, man! Not the ghost of a look will he give me. He's fine-looking, too, if his hair wasn't so insanely distracted, and his brow ridged and furrowed deep enough to plant potatoes in. What in the name of fortune's he doing to his hands?"
They may take our mountains, our valleys, and our bogs; but, bad luck to them, they can't steal our 'blarney; that's the privilege one and indivisible with our identity. And while an Englishman raves of his liberty, a Scotchman of his oaten meal, blarney's our birthright, and a prettier portion I'd never ask to leave behind me to my sons.
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