A new stock of porter

A new stock of porter was brought in this morning to the little public house underneath my room and I could hear in the intervals of our talk that a number of men had come in to treat some neighbours from the middle island, and singing many songs, some of them in English of the kind I have given, but most of them in Irish. A little later when the party broke downstairs, my old men got nervous about the fairies – they live some distance away – and set off across the sand hills – JM Synge, The Aran Islands (1906).

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