said they were fools altogether, and that it was something else entirely that was the matter with the man of the house, and every name they had on his sickness this time was twice—three times—as long as ever before. They left the poor man a bottle or two to drink, and they went away, and they humbugging the women for saying that he had swallowed an alt-pluachra.
The boccuch said when they were gone away: "I don't wonder at all that you're not getting better, if it's fools like those you have with you. There's not a doctor or a medicine-man in Ireland now that'll do you any good, but only one man, and that's Mac Dermott the Prince of Coolavin, on the brink of Lough Gara, the best doctor in Connacht or the five provinces."
"Where is Lough Gara?" said the poor man.
"Down in the County Sligo," says he; "it's a big lake, and the prince is living on the brink of it; and if you'll take my advice you'll go there, for it's the last hope you have; and you, Mistress," said he, turning to the woman of the house, "ought to make him go, if you wish your man to be alive."
"Musha!" says the woman, "I'd do anything that would cure him."
"If so, send him to the Prince of Coolavin," says he.
"I'd do anything at all to cure myself," says the sick man, "for I know I haven't long to live on this world if I don't get some relief, or without something to be done for me."
"Then go to the Prince of Coolavin," says the beggarman.
"Anything that you think would do yourself good, you ought to do it, father," says the daughter.
"There's nothing will do him good but to go to the Prince of Coolavin," said the beggarman.
