Oh! ay, you're goin' away, then, to America; but, mark my words:--I won't go.
You may, but I'll stay here.

I won't lave the green fields of Carriglass for any one.

It's not much I'll be among them now, an' it isn't worth your while to take me from them.

Here's where I was born--here's where the limbs that's now stiff an' feeble was wanst young and active--here's where the hair that's white as snow was fair an' curlin' like goold--here's where I was young--here's where I grew ould--among these dark hills and green fields--here you all know is where I was born; and, in spite o' you all, here's where I'll die." The old man was much moved by all these recollections; for, as he proceeded, the tears fell fast from his aged eyes, and his voice became tremulous and full of 'sorrow.
"Wasn't it here, too," he proceeded, "that Peggy Slevin, she that was famed far an' near for her beauty, and that the sweet song was made upon--'Peggy Na Laveen'-- -ay--ay, you may think yourselves fine an' handsome; but, where was there sich a couple as grandfather and Peggy Na Laveen was then ?" As he uttered these words, his features that had been impressed by grief, were lit up by a smile of that simple and harmless vanity which often attends us to the very grave; after which he proceeded:-- "There, on the side of that hill is the roofless house where she was born; an' there's not a field or hill about the place that her feet didn't make holy to me.

I remember her well.