'why then, though you were no
great things in the way of kindness to me when your bones were
together, that isn't the reason why I'd be glad to see them torn
asunder this morning early.' So gathering up all the pieces that he
could find, he put them into a bag he had with him, and away with him
to the well of Barrygowen, where he lost no time in making a round,
and throwing them in, all in a heap. In an instant, he saw
Owney-na-peak as well as ever, scrambling out of the well, and helping
him to get up, he asked him how he felt himself.

'Oh! is it how I'd feel myself you'd want to know?' said the other;
'easy and I'll tell you. Take that for a specimen!' giving him at the
same time a blow on the head, which you may say wasn't long in laying
Owney sprawling on the ground. Then without giving him a minute's time
to recover, he thrust him into the very bag from which he had been
just shaken himself, resolving within himself to drown him in the
Shannon at once, and put an end to him for ever.

Growing weary by the way, he stopped at a shebeen house _over-right_
Robertstown Castle, to refresh himself with a _morning_, before he'd
go any farther. Poor Owney did not know what to do when he came to
himself, if it might be rightly called coming to himself, and the
great bag tied up about him. His wicked cousin shot him down behind
the door in the kitchen, and telling him he'd have his life surely if
he stirred, he walked in to take something that's good in the little
parlour.

Owney could not for the life of him avoid cutting a hole in the bag,
to have a peep about the kitchen, and see whether he had no means of
escape. He could see only one person, a simple-looking man, who was
counting his beads in the chimney-corner, and now and then striking
his breast, and looking up as if he was praying greatly.

'Lord,' says he, 'only give me death, death, and a favourable
judgment! I haven't anybody now to look after, nor anybody to look
after me. What's a few tinpennies to save a man from want? Only a
quiet grave is all I ask.'

'Murther, murther!' says Owney to himself, 'here's a man wants death
and can't have it, and here am I going to have it, and, in troth, I
don't want it at all, see.' So, after thinking a little what he had
best do, he began to sing out very merrily, but lowering his voice,
for fear he should be heard in the next room:

'To him that tied me here,
Be thanks and praises given!
I'll bless him