] -- Them is great sights, holy
father. . . . What was it I seen when I first opened my eyes but
your own bleeding feet, and they cut with the stones? That was a
great sight, maybe, of the image of God. . . . And what was it I
seen my last day but the villainy of hell looking out from the
eyes of the girl you're coming to marry -- the Lord forgive you
-- with Timmy the smith. That was a great sight, maybe. And
wasn't it great sights I seen on the roads when the north winds
would be driving, and the skies would be harsh, till you'd see
the horses and the asses, and the dogs itself, maybe, with their
heads hanging, and they closing their eyes --.
SAINT. And did you never hear tell of the summer, and the fine
spring, and the places where the holy men of Ireland have built
up churches to the Lord? No man isn't a madman, I'm thinking,
would be talking the like of that, and wishing to be closed up
and seeing no sight of the grand glittering seas, and the furze
that is opening above, and will soon have the hills shining as if
it was fine creels of gold they were, rising to the sky.
MARTIN DOUL. Is it talking now you are of Knock and Ballavore?
Ah, it's ourselves had finer sights than the like of them, I'm
telling you, when we were sitting a while back hearing the birds
and bees humming in every weed of the ditch, or when we'd be
smelling the sweet, beautiful smell does be rising in the warm
nights, when you do hear the swift flying things racing in the
air, till we'd be looking up in our own minds into a grand sky,
and seeing lakes, and big rivers, and fine hills for taking the
plough.
Pages:
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77