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Updated: May 28, 2025
No, he says, 'news is sin an' sin is news, an' I'm worth on'y a line beginnin': "Kelly, at the parish-house, April twinty- sicond, in th' fiftieth year iv his age," an' pay f'r that, while Scanlan's bad boy is good f'r a column anny time he goes dhrunk an' thries to kill a polisman. A rellijious newspaper? None iv thim f'r me. I want to know what's goin' on among th' murdher an' burglary set.
'Whiniver I fight, he says, 'I always have a pome, he says. 'Glory be, says I, 'there's Scanlan's chanst to give it to him, I says. But Scanlan was as slow as a dhray; an', before he cud get action, Hogan was at him, l'adin' with th' pome an' counthrin' with the soord. 'I'll call this pome, he says, 'a pome about a gazabo I wanst had a dool with in Finucane's hall, he says.
He was as communicative as hosts usually are: the crops and the markets, the price of beasts at last Castle Dermot fair, the last story about the vicar, and the last joke of Father Hogan the priest; how the Whiteboys had burned Squire Scanlan's ricks, and the highwaymen had been beaten off in their attack upon Sir Thomas's house; who was to hunt the Kilkenny hounds next season, and the wonderful run entirely they had last March; what troops were in the town, and how Miss Biddy Toole had run off with Ensign Mullins: all the news of sport, assize, and quarter-sessions were detailed by this worthy chronicler of small-beer, who wondered that my honour hadn't heard of them in England, or in foreign parts, where he seemed to think the world was as interested as he was about the doings of Kilkenny and Carlow.
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