« "A Grim Cavorting Whirl" | Main | The Law In Its Majesty »


From Yeats' Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry.

The bodies of saints are fastidious things. At a place called Four-mile-Water, in Wexford, there is an old graveyard full of saints. Once it was on the other side of the river, but they buried a rogue there, and the whole graveyard moved across in the night, leaving the rogue-corpse in solitude. It would have been easier to move merely the rogue-corpse, but they were saints, and had to do things in style.


TrackBack URL for this entry: