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Updated: May 3, 2025
Duallach of the pipes sat on the bench in the chimney playing 'The Green Bunch of Rushes', 'The Unchion Stream, and 'The Princes of Breffeny' on his old pipes, and railing now at the appearance of the shooters, now at their clumsy shooting, and now at Costello because he had no better servants.
John's Eve, and how she was a little better or a little worse, as it might be; and though he looked to his horses and his cows and goats as usual, the common and uncomely, the dust upon the roads, the songs of men returning from fairs and wakes, men playing cards in the corners of fields on Sundays and Saints' Days, the rumours of battles and changes in the great world, the deliberate purposes of those about him, troubled him with an inexplicable trouble; and the country people still remember how when night had fallen he would bid Duallach of the Pipes tell, to the chirping of the crickets, 'The Son of Apple, 'The Beauty of the World, 'The King of Ireland's Son, or some other of those traditional tales which were as much a piper's business as 'The Green Bunch of Rushes, 'The Unchion Stream, or 'The Chiefs of Breffeny'; and while the boundless and phantasmal world of the legends was a-building, would abandon himself to the dreams of his sorrow.
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