the
unfortunate tithe proctors were looking at that moment most doleful
examples of wretchedness. A large shovelful of turf ashes was now
shaken over their heads, and then they were decorated with their
mitres. "Tut, man," said Larry to one of them, "don't thrimble like a
dog in a wet sack. Oh, thin, look at him how pale he's turned, the
dirty coward that he is. I tell you, we're not goin' to do you any
hurt, so you needn't be lookin' in sitch mortial dhread. By gor,
you're as white as pen'orth o' curds in a sweep's fist."

With many such jokes at the expense of the tithe proctors, they were
attired in their caricature robes and mitres, and presented with a pair
of pitchforks, by way of crosiers, and were recommended at the same
time to make hay while the sun shone, "bekase the fine weather would be
lavin' them soon;" with many other bitter sarcasms, conveyed in the
language of ridicule.

The procession was now soon arranged, and, as they had their chief
mourners, it was thought a good point of contrast to have their chief
rejoicers as well. To this end, in a large cart they put a sow and her
litter of pigs, decorated with ribands, a sheaf of wheat standing
proudly erect, a bowl of large potatoes, which, at Honor O'Hara's
suggestion, were boiled, that they might be laughing on the occasion,
and over these was hung a rude banner, on which was written, "We may
stay at home now."

In this cart, Hoppy Houligan, the fiddler, with a piper as a coadjutor,
rasped and squeaked their best to the tune of "Go to the devil and
shake yourself," which was meant to convey a delicate hint to the
tithes for the future.

The whole assemblage of people, and it was immense, then proceeded to
the spot where it was decided the tithe was to be interred, as the most
fitting place to receive such a deposit, and this place was called by
what they considered the very appropriate name of "The Devil's Bit."[7]

In a range of hills, in the neighbourhood where this singular
occurrence took place, there is a sudden gap occurs in the outline of
the ridge, which is stated to have been formed by his sable majesty
taking a bite out of the mountain; whether it was spite or hunger that
had made him do so, is not ascertained, but he evidently did not
consider it a very savoury morsel; for it is said, he spat it out
again, and the rejected morceau forms the rock of Cashel. Such is the
wild legend of this wild spot; and here was the interment of th