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"Here, dancers come and dance your jigs," she called, "and pipers, pipe you well, for here's my own Florentine, come back to me to stay for he's brought no bonny boy with him this time." "No, mother," said Florentine, "no dancers for me and no minstrels, for my dear wife, the mother of my seven, boys, is to be wed to- morrow, and sad's the day for me."
"Sad's no name for it," replied the visitor, with emotion. "Oh, Mrs Cruden, 'ow sorry I am for you." "You are very kind. It is a sad trial to be separated from my boy, but I've not given up hopes of seeing him back soon." Mrs Shuckleford shook her head. "'Ow you must suffer on 'is account," said she. "If your 'eart don't break with it, it must be made of tougher stuff than mine."
"Och! sad's the day; and I'll never more be after seeing him again, the dear young masther, barrin' it's his corpse is sent up by the cruel waves on the shore, and I'll be left all alone in this desart counthry to bury him, the last hope of the D'Arcys, instead of in the tomb of his ancestors in ould Ireland.
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