Y'all tell such tales. Honest to Gosh. Hell, I have just read three or four books from that writer feller Tim Cahill--one is called "Nibbled to Death by Ducks", for example--compared to which, I mean, your stories are almost pale and paltry yearnings. He is such a mensch, I swan.

Often in the evenings after two glasses of rioja, I take the faire dogge Maggie for a stroll to relieve her of any burdens of micturition for the night ahead, and thanks to the mellowing influence of Bacchus I often sing, softly, the old songs as I stroll by the darkened homes of my neighbors. Tonight O sang the whole story of Barb'ry Ellen, and then the long saga of Lord Lovell, both of which I recalled perfectly. ANother night it might be Carrickfergus or Old Reilly's Daughter or some variant on Patrick Spence. The dark homes do not complain, and Maggie Dogg finds it good accompaniment for her snuffling and peeing.

And so, good night, Mrs Murgatroyd, wherever you are...