There was a man in the olden time, and he owned a snug little farm.
What did he do, of a winter’s day, only break a great branch off a lone bush for to burn in the fire. A thorn went into his hand and it pierced it through.
“That was a sore jag,” says he.
But there was a little grey woman sitting in under the lone bush, and she let a terrible laugh.
There were two of the neighbours seen what occurred, and they passing down through the field. One of them ran away home, but the other, a venturesome lad, came across.
“What are you after doing, my poor fellow?” says he.
“I am after destroying my hand with a thorn,” says the man.
The neighbour allowed there was worse in it nor that.
“Did you hear the grey woman laugh?” he inquires.
“There is no woman here,” says the other.
“I seen her a while past, and I coming down to your side. She was sitting in under the bush, but now she is gone. When you drove the thorn through your hand she let a lamentable laugh that was worse nor a cry.”
The man didn’t believe it at all. But the jag in his hand festered up and he died for breaking the branch of the thorn.