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Many a time, too, have I been gratified, in the same poetical hour, by the sweet sound of honest Ned M'Keown's ungreased cartwheels, clacking, when nature seemed to have fallen asleep after the day-stir and animation of rural business for Ned was sometimes a carman on his return from Dublin with a load of his own groceries, without as much money in his pocket as would purchase oil wherewith to silence the sounds which the friction produced regaling his own ears the while, as well as the music of the cart would permit his melody to be heard, with his favorite tune of Cannie Soogah.*
"This evening be it, if it hasten M'Keown's liberation. Remember, however, Mr. Basset, I'll hold no converse with you on any other subject till that be settled, and to my perfect satisfaction." "A bargain, sir," said he, with a grin of satisfaction; and dropping back, he suffered me to proceed.
W. Carleton. Dublin. Ned M'Keown's house stood exactly in an angle, formed by the cross-roads of Kilrudden. It was a long, whitewashed building, well thatched and furnished with the usual appurtenances of yard and offices. Like most Irish houses of the better sort, it had two doors, one opening into a garden that sloped down from the rear in a southern direction.
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