Where the river widens, at Cushvalley Lough, the
industrious echo-makers most usually greet the visitor. One has scarcely
recovered from the warmth of their courteous welcome, when some
suggestive volunteer, aborigine to the place, with a "Mr. Bugler, God
spare you your wind," secures their services; although you do not call
the tune, you are expected to pay the musicians. But the trifle spent
on the gunpowder for their cannons, or the breath from their lungs, is
well repaid by the mighty mass of air they start into waves of music.
Here, too, the "auxiliary forces," or pony boys, besiege us with their
sure-footed, shaggy "coppaleens." They have come galloping down the pass
at break-neck speed to lend us the assistance of their light cavalry.
Wonderful creatures they are, these horses and riders. The peasant boys
are for all the world the modern prototypes of those "rake-helly horse
boys" of Queen Elizabeth's reign, who filled so many pages of the State
papers. Sinew and muscle knit their loose limbs together, and, in their
eyes, mild and calm as those of the quiet cattle in the field, but like
the surface of their native lakes, covering unfathomed depths, they
conceal souls swept by deep thoughts, and minds clouded by many
memories.
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