““Occasionally she’d cook meals(?) of fish for him and place on his heartsfoot [hearth’s foot? heart’s foot, figurative language for joy?] her meddery [???] eggs, sausages, and stainish [burnt/crispy] bacon on toast, and a wishy-washy cup of Greenland tea or soup-can(?) of coffee, milk and sugar, or Si-Kiang sugary [some sort of sweet tea?], or ale of ferns [herbal ale?] in trueart [skillfully crafted] pewter, and a bit of bread “??? ???” to please him and keep his stomach porky, until her (???)knees shrunk to nutmeg graters while her joints shucked [peeled] with gout; and as rash as she’d rush with her peak-load of provisions up on her sieve [???] “(???) rage, it swells and rises”, my hardy Hek [Hector?], he’d cast them from him, with a stour [force] of scorn, as much as to say you sow and you sorrow, and if he didn’t peg it flat on her (tail/head/heel?), believe you me, she was safe enough.””

I don’t know what kind of rural Irish hell this comes out of, but some of the words don’t even look English. I hated trying to decipher that and I’m sure I wasn’t accurate for half of it.