Last night I went to a wide pla the Kiltartan road to listen to some Irish songs. While I waited for the singers an old man sang about that try beauty who died so many years ago, and spoke of a singer he had known who sang so beautifully that no horse would pass him, but must turn its head and cock its ears to listen. Presently a score of men and boys and girls, with shawls over their beads, gathered uhe trees to listen. Somebody sang Sa Muirnin Diles, and then somebody else Jimmy Mo Milestor, mournful songs of separation, of death, and of exile. Then some of the men stood up and began to dance, while another lilted the measure they dao, and then somebody sang Eiblin a Ruin, that glad song of meeting which has always moved me more than other songs, because the lover who made it sang it to his sweetheart uhe shadow of a mountain I looked at every day through my childhood. The voices melted into the twilight and were mixed into the trees, and when I thoug……（内容加载失败！）
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