Jemmy Burke himself, a placid though solemn-faced man, was sitting on the hob in question complacently smoking his pipe, whilst over the glowing remnants of an immense turf fire hung a singing kettle, and beside it on three crushed coals was the teapot, "waitin'," as the servants were in the habit of expressing it, "for the masther and misthress's breakfast." Peety, who was well known and a great favorite on his rounds, received a warm and hospitable welcome from Jemmy Burke, who made him and the girl sit upon the hob, and immediately ordered them breakfast.
"Here, Nancy Devlin, get Peety and the girsha their skinfuls of stirabout an' milk.

Sit over to the fire, alanna, an' warm yourself." "Warm, inagh!" replied Peety; "why, sure it's not a fire sich a blessed mornin' as this she'd want--an' a blessed mornin' it is, glory be to God!" "Troth, an' you're right, sure enough, Peety," replied the good-natured farmer; "a blessed saison it is for gettin' down the crops.

Go over there, now, you an' the girsha, to that other table, an'-- whish!--kick them pigs an' dogs out o' the house, an' be d--d to them! One can't hear their ears for them--you an' the girsha, an' let us see what you can do.

Nancy, achora, jist dash a gawliogue o' sweet milk into their noggins--they're not like us that's well fed every day--.

it's but seldom they get the likes, the creatures--so dash in a brave gawliogue o' the sweet milk for them.