I ely to a little group of  many enougo be called a village, in tartan in County Galway, w of Ireland.

    tle, Ballylee, ined by a farmer and tage tle mill rees ttle river and great stepping-stones. I  times last year to talk to t Biddy Early, a  lived in Clare some years ago, and about wo mill-wheels of Ballylee,”

    and to find out from  ters or some ot is autumn, because Mary iful urf fires, died ty years ago; for our feet o make us understand t it is not of t me a little le, and do  in brambles and sloe bus is ttle old foundation of t t of it is taken for building s e t are gro till t cranky, and t gro girl in Ireland,  driven snoalked to  a poem in Irisery, a famous poet, made about  said, “trong cellar in Ballylee.” rong cellar   me to a deep pool,  many fis of ter at early morning “to taste ter coming dohe hills.”

    I first  tery and Mary ill I die,” and t  to go round and to mark some o go to, and to reated  if you did not,  you in Irisest poet in Ireland, and  t buso stand under it. tood under from t, and ter came t.” So a friend and to myself in Irisoo proud to be t of ural as t Irisry of t century, for ts are arranged in a too obviously traditional form, so t o speak as if  of everyto t it ender p ranslation, but some of it ry people t y of t translations.

    Going to Mass by the will of God,

    t and the wind rose;

    I met Mary  tartan,

    And I fell in love here.

    I spoke to her kind and mannerly,

    As by report was he