Page four: Lochlannach arrived to an age ready-set for a buachaill and a cowherd. Meanwhile a new germination of Lochlannach abandoned their pagan ways to the cult of the cross and stronger horseback warfare. They overpowered the lightweight Irish infantry. And planted their status symbol castles prominently on the land. These Normans had come at the behest of a disgraced king exiled of Leinster whose short-sightedness, under the colonial perfume of Henry II's hand, could not foretell the Lordship who would surpass thereafter. A leash on the land and a vice on the tongues of Irish-speaking mouths and native Irish wildlife and the mouths, forcefully, over-relying on a staple crop. To the juxtaposition of exotic walled gardens which concealed her famine labourers who bore, each the full heft of James Connelly’s best request: We only want the earth. Independence merely doubled down on this path of landownership and competition — and a death warrant placed on the lifestyle of Eire's traveling tinsmiths. And the commitment to a union — who bows its collective head to the will of Lochlannach — with longships, filled now with top guns in an industry of war, ever-lasting.