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In the lengthening evenings of late August she would play from Schumann, or Chopin, or Grieg, interpreting the vague feelings of gladness or grief which lie too deep for words. Ballads she loved, quaint old English and Scotch airs, folk-songs of Germany, "Come-all-ye's" of Ireland, Canadian chansons. She sang not like an angel, but like a woman.
'It goes like this, says Slavin. 'A-ah, din yadden, yooden a-yadden, arrah yadden ay-a. 'I dinnaw it, says th' girl. ''Tis a low chune, annyhow, says Mrs. Donahue. 'Misther Slavin ividintly thinks he's at a polis picnic, she says. 'I'll have no come-all-ye's in this house, she says. 'Molly, give us a few ba-ars fr'm Wagner. 'What Wagner's that? says Flannagan.
He was a man of the world, having sailed deep-sea voyages in his youth. He was a grand fiddler, a grand singer, and had made more "Come-all-ye's" than you could count on your fingers and toes. He had a wooden leg; and his daughter was the finest girl in Chance Along. His best known Come-all-ye, which is sung to this day from Caplin Arm to Bay Bulls, starts like this:
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