"Oh; mudher, mudher, gi' me a piece o' arran? (* bread.)

"Why, here's the praties done for your dinner. What kep you?"

"Oh, be gorra, it's well you ever seen me at all, so it is!"

"Why," said his father, "what happened you?"

"Oh, bedad, a terrible thing all out. As I was crassin' Dunroe Hill, I
thramped on hungry grass. First, I didn't know what kem over me, I got
so wake; an' every step I wint, 'twas waker an' waker I was growin',
till at long last, down I dhrops, an' couldn't move hand or fut. I dunna
how long I lay there, so I don't; but anyhow, who should be _sthreelin_'
acrass the hill, but an old _baccagh_.

"'My _bouchaleen dhas_,' says he--'my beautiful boy,' says he--'you're
in a bad state I find. You've thramped upon Dunroe _hungry grass_, an'
only for somethin' it's a _prabeen_ you'd be, afore ever you'd see home.
Can you spake at all?' says he.

"'Oh, murdher,' says I,' I b'lieve not.'

"'Well here,' says the baccagh, 'open your purty gub, an' take in a
thrifle of this male, an' you'll soon be stout enough.' Well, to be
sure, it bates the world! I had hardly tasted the male, whin I found
myself as well as ever; bekase you know, mudher, that's the cure for
it. 'Now,' says the baccagh, 'this is the spot the fairies planted their
hungry grass, an' so you'll know it agin when you see it. What's your
name?' says he.