SCENE: The same. Early morning. Sarah is washing her face in an old bucket; then plaits her hair. Michael is tidying himself also. Mary Byrne is asleep against the ditch.
SARAH
to Michael, with pleased excitement.—Go over, now, to the bundle beyond, and you’ll find a kind of a red handkerchief to put upon your neck, and a green one for myself.
MICHAEL
getting them.—You’re after spending more money on the like of them. Well, it’s a power we’re losing this time, and we not gaining a thing at all. (With the handkerchief.) Is it them two?
SARAH
It is, Michael. (She takes one of them.) Let you tackle that one round under your chin; and let you not forget to take your hat from your head when we go up into the church. I asked Biddy Flynn below, that’s after marrying her second man, and she told me it’s the like of that they do.
[Mary yawns, and turns over in her sleep.
SARAH
with anxiety.—There she is waking up on us, and I thinking we’d have the job done before she’d know of it at all.
MICHAEL
She’ll be crying out now, and making game of us, and saying it’s fools we are surely.
SARAH
I’ll send her to sleep again, or get her out of it one way or another; for it’d be a bad case to have a divil’s scholar the like of her turning the priest against us maybe with her godless talk.
MARY
waking up, and looking at them with curiosity, blandly.—That’s fine things you have on you, Sarah Casey; and it’s a great stir you’re making this day, washing your face. I’m that used to the hammer, I wouldn’t hear it at all, but washing is a rare thing, and you’re after waking me up, and I having a great sleep in the sun.
[She looks around cautiously at the bundle in which she has hidden the bottles.
SARAH
coaxingly.—Let you stretch out again for a sleep, Mary Byrne, for it’ll be a middling time yet before we go to the fair.
MARY
with suspicion.—That’s a sweet tongue you have, Sarah Casey; but if sleep’s a grand thing, it’s a grand thing to be waking up a day the like of this, when there’s a warm sun in it, and a kind air, and you’ll hear the cuckoos singing and crying out on the top of the hills.
SARAH
If it’s that gay you are, you’d have a right to walk down and see would you get a few halfpence from the rich men do be driving early to the fair.
MARY
When rich men do be driving early, it’s queer tempers they have, the Lord forgive them; the way it’s little but bad words and swearing out you’d get from them all.
SARAH
losing her temper and breaking out fiercely.—Then if you’ll neither beg nor sleep, let you walk off from this place where you’re not wanted, and not have us waiting for you maybe at the turn of day.
MARY
rather uneasy, turning to Michael.—God help our spirits, Michael; there she is again rousing cranky from the break of dawn. Oh! isn’t she a terror since the moon did change? (She gets up slowly.) And I’d best be going forward to sell the gallon can.
[She goes over and takes up the bundle.
SARAH
crying out angrily.—Leave that down, Mary Byrne. Oh! aren’t you the scorn of women to think that you’d have that drouth and roguery on you that you’d go drinking the can and the dew not dried from the grass?
MARY
in a feigned tone of pacification, with the bundle still in her hand.—It’s not a drouth but a heartburn I have this day, Sarah Casey, so I’m going down to cool my gullet at the blessed well; and I’ll sell the can to the parson’s daughter below, a harmless poor creature would fill your hand with shillings for a brace of lies.
SARAH
Leave down the tin can, Mary Byrne, for I hear the drouth upon your tongue to-day.
MARY
There’s not a drink-house from this place to the fair, Sarah Casey; the way you’ll find me below with the full price, and not a farthing gone.
[She turns to go off left.
SARAH
jumping up, and picking up the hammer threateningly.—Put down that can, I’m saying.
MARY
looking at her for a moment in terror, and putting down the bundle in the ditch.—Is it raving mad you’re going, Sarah Casey, and you the pride of women to destroy the world?
SARAH
going up to her, and giving her a push off left.—I’ll show you if it’s raving mad I am. Go on from this place, I’m saying, and be wary now.
MARY
turning back after her.—If I go, I’ll be telling old and young you’re a weathered heathen savage, Sarah Casey, the one did put down a head of the parson’s cabbage to boil in the pot with your clothes (the Priest comes in behind her, on the left, and listens), and quenched the flaming candles on the throne of God the time your shadow fell within the pillars of the chapel door.
[Sarah turns on her, and she springs round nearly into the Priest’s arms. When she sees him, she claps her shawl over her mouth, and goes up towards the ditch, laughing to herself.
PRIEST
going to Sarah, half terrified at the language that he has heard.—Well, aren’t you a fearful lot? I’m thinking it’s only humbug you were making at the fall of night, and you won’t need me at all.
SARAH
with anger still in her voice.—Humbug is it! Would you be turning back upon your spoken promise in the face of God?
PRIEST
dubiously.—I’m thinking you were never christened, Sarah Casey; and it would be a queer job to go dealing Christian sacraments unto the like of you. (Persuasively feeling in his pocket.) So it would be best, maybe, I’d give you a shilling for to drink my health, and let you walk on, and not trouble me at all.
SARAH
That’s your talking, is it? If you don’t stand to your spoken word, holy father, I’ll make my own complaint to the mitred bishop in the face of all.
PRIEST
You’d do that!
SARAH
I would surely, holy father, if I walked to the city of Dublin with blood and blisters on my naked feet.
PRIEST
uneasily scratching his ear.—I wish this day was done, Sarah Casey; for I’m thinking it’s a risky thing getting mixed up in any matters with the like of you.
SARAH
Be hasty then, and you’ll have us done with before you’d think at all.
PRIEST
giving in.—Well, maybe it’s right you are, and let you come up to the chapel when you see me looking from the door.
[He goes up into the chapel.
SARAH
calling after him.—We will, and God preserve you, holy father.
MARY
coming down to them, speaking with amazement and consternation, but without anger.—Going to the chapel! It’s at marriage you’re fooling again, maybe? (Sarah turns her back on her.) It was for that you were washing your face, and you after sending me for porter at the fall of night the way I’d drink a good half from the jug? (Going round in front of Sarah.) Is it at marriage you’re fooling again?
SARAH
triumphantly.—It is, Mary Byrne. I’ll be married now in a short while; and from this day there will no one have a right to call me a dirty name and I selling cans in Wicklow or Wexford or the city of Dublin itself.
MARY
turning to Michael.—And it’s yourself is wedding her, Michael Byrne?
MICHAEL
gloomily.—It is, God spare us.
MARY
looks at Sarah for a moment, and then bursts out into a laugh of derision.—Well, she’s a tight, hardy girl, and it’s no lie; but I never knew till this day it was a black born fool I had for a son. You’ll breed asses, I’ve heard them say, and poaching dogs, and horses’d go licking the wind, but it’s a hard thing, God help me, to breed sense in a son.
MICHAEL
gloomily.—If I didn’t marry her, she’d be walking off to Jaunting Jim maybe at the fall of night; and it’s well yourself knows there isn’t the like of her for getting money and selling songs to the men.
MARY
And you’re thinking it’s paying gold to his reverence would make a woman stop when she’s a mind to go?
SARAH
angrily.—Let you not be destroying us with your talk when I’ve as good a right to a decent marriage as any speckled female does be sleeping in the black hovels above, would choke a mule.
MARY
soothingly.—It’s as good a right you have surely, Sarah Casey, but what good will it do? Is it putting that ring on your finger will keep you from getting an aged woman and losing the fine face you have, or be easing your pains, when it’s the grand ladies do be married in silk dresses, with rings of gold, that do pass any woman with their share of torment in the hour of birth, and do be paying the doctors in the city of Dublin a great price at that time, the like of what you’d pay for a good ass and a cart?
[She sits down.
SARAH
puzzled.—Is that the truth?
MARY
pleased with the point she has made.—Wouldn’t any know it’s the truth? Ah, it’s a few short years you are yet in the world, Sarah Casey, and it’s little or nothing at all maybe you know about it.
SARAH
vehement but uneasy.—What is it yourself knows of the fine ladies when they wouldn’t let the like of you go near them at all?
MARY
If you do be drinking a little sup in one town and another town, it’s soon you get great knowledge and a great sight into the world. You’ll see men there, and women there, sitting up on the ends of barrels in the dark night, and they making great talk would soon have the like of you, Sarah Casey, as wise as a March hare.
MICHAEL
to Sarah.—That’s the truth she’s saying, and maybe if you’ve sense in you at all, you’d have a right still to leave your fooling, and not be wasting our gold.
SARAH
decisively.—If it’s wise or fool I am, I’ve made a good bargain and I’ll stand to it now.
MARY
What is it he’s making you give?
MICHAEL
The ten shillings in gold, and the tin can is above tied in the sack.
MARY
looking at the bundle with surprise and dread.—The bit of gold and the tin can, is it?
MICHAEL
The half a sovereign, and the gallon can.
MARY
scrambling to her feet quickly.—Well, I think I’ll be walking off the road to the fair the way you won’t be destroying me going too fast on the hills. (She goes a few steps towards the left, then turns and speaks to Sarah very persuasively.) Let you not take the can from the sack, Sarah Casey; for the people is coming above would be making game of you, and pointing their fingers if they seen you do the like of that. Let you leave it safe in the bag, I’m saying, Sarah darling. It’s that way will be best.
[She goes towards left, and pauses for a moment, looking about her with embarrassment.
MICHAEL
in a low voice.—What ails her at all?
SARAH
anxiously.—It’s real wicked she does be when you hear her speaking as easy as that.
MARY
to herself.—I’d be safer in the chapel, I’m thinking; for if she caught me after on the road, maybe she would kill me then.
[She comes hobbling back towards the right.
SARAH
Where is it you’re going? It isn’t that way we’ll be walking to the fair.
MARY
I’m going up into the chapel to give you my blessing and hear the priest saying his prayers. It’s a lonesome road is running below to Greenane, and a woman would never know the things might happen her and she walking single in a lonesome place.
[As she reaches the chapel-gate, the Priest comes to it in his surplice.
PRIEST
crying out.—Come along now. It is the whole day you’d keep me here saying my prayers, and I getting my death with not a bit in my stomach, and my breakfast in ruins, and the Lord Bishop maybe driving on the road to-day?
SARAH
We’re coming now, holy father.
PRIEST
Give me the bit of gold into my hand.
SARAH
It’s here, holy father.
[She gives it to him. Michael takes the bundle from the ditch and brings it over, standing a little behind Sarah. He feels the bundle, and looks at Mary with a meaning look.
PRIEST
looking at the gold.—It’s a good one, I’m thinking, wherever you got it. And where is the can?
SARAH
taking the bundle.—We have it here in a bit of clean sack, your reverence. We tied it up in the inside of that to keep it from rusting in the dews of night, and let you not open it now or you’ll have the people making game of us and telling the story on us, east and west to the butt of the hills.
PRIEST
taking the bundle.—Give it here into my hand, Sarah Casey. What is it any person would think of a tinker making a can.
[He begins opening the bundle.
SARAH
It’s a fine can, your reverence. for if it’s poor simple people we are, it’s fine cans we can make, and himself, God help him, is a great man surely at the trade.
[Priest opens the bundle; the three empty bottles fall out.
SARAH
Glory to the saints of joy!
PRIEST
Did ever any man see the like of that? To think you’d be putting deceit on me, and telling lies to me, and I going to marry you for a little sum wouldn’t marry a child.
SARAH
crestfallen and astonished.—It’s the divil did it, your reverence, and I wouldn’t tell you a lie. (Raising her hands.) May the Lord Almighty strike me dead if the divil isn’t after hooshing the tin can from the bag.
PRIEST
vehemently.—Go along now, and don’t be swearing your lies. Go along now, and let you not be thinking I’m big fool enough to believe the like of that, when it’s after selling it you are or making a swap for drink of it, maybe, in the darkness of the night.
MARY
in a peacemaking voice, putting her hand on the Priest’s left arm.—She wouldn’t do the like of that, your reverence, when she hasn’t a decent standing drouth on her at all; and she’s setting great store on her marriage the way you’d have a right to be taking her easy, and not minding the can. What differ would an empty can make with a fine, rich, hardy man the like of you?
SARAH
imploringly.—Marry us, your reverence, for the ten shillings in gold, and we’ll make you a grand can in the evening—a can would be fit to carry water for the holy man of God. Marry us now and I’ll be saying fine prayers for you, morning and night, if it’d be raining itself, and it’d be in two black pools I’d be setting my knees.
PRIEST
loudly.—It’s a wicked, thieving, lying, scheming lot you are, the pack of you. Let you walk off now and take every stinking rag you have there from the ditch.
MARY
putting her shawl over her head.—Marry her, your reverence, for the love of God, for there’ll be queer doings below if you send her off the like of that and she swearing crazy on the road.
SARAH
angrily.—It’s the truth she’s saying; for it’s herself, I’m thinking, is after swapping the tin can for a pint, the time she was raging mad with the drouth, and ourselves above walking the hill.
MARY
crying out with indignation.—Have you no shame, Sarah Casey, to tell lies unto a holy man?
SARAH
to Mary, working herself into a rage.—It’s making game of me you’d be, and putting a fool’s head on me in the face of the world; but if you were thinking to be mighty cute walking off, or going up to hide in the church, I’ve got you this time, and you’ll not run from me now.
She seizes up one of the bottles.
MARY
hiding behind the priest.—Keep her off, your reverence, keep her off for the love of the Almighty God. What at all would the Lord Bishop say if he found me here lying with my head broken across, or the two of yous maybe digging a bloody grave for me at the door of the church?
PRIEST
waving Sarah off.—Go along, Sarah Casey. Would you be doing murder at my feet? Go along from me now, and wasn’t I a big fool to have to do with you when it’s nothing but distraction and torment I get from the kindness of my heart?
SARAH
shouting.—I’ve bet a power of strong lads east and west through the world, and are you thinking I’d turn back from a priest? Leave the road now, or maybe I would strike yourself.
PRIEST
You would not, Sarah Casey. I’ve no fear for the lot of you; but let you walk off, I’m saying, and not be coming where you’ve no business, and screeching tumult and murder at the doorway of the church.
SARAH
I’ll not go a step till I have her head broke, or till I’m wed with himself. If you want to get shut of us, let you marry us now, for I’m thinking the ten shillings in gold is a good price for the like of you, and you near burst with the fat.
PRIEST
I wouldn’t have you coming in on me and soiling my church; for there’s nothing at all, I’m thinking, would keep the like of you from hell. (He throws down the ten shillings on the ground.) Gather up your gold now, and begone from my sight, for if ever I set an eye on you again you’ll hear me telling the peelers who it was stole the black ass belonging to Philly O’Cullen, and whose hay it is the grey ass does be eating.
SARAH
You’d do that?
PRIEST
I would, surely.
SARAH
If you do, you’ll be getting all the tinkers from Wicklow and Wexford, and the County Meath, to put up block tin in the place of glass to shield your windows where you do be looking out and blinking at the girls. It’s hard set you’ll be that time, I’m telling you, to fill the depth of your belly the long days of Lent; for we wouldn’t leave a laying pullet in your yard at all.
PRIEST
losing his temper finally.—Go on, now, or I’ll send the Lords of Justice a dated story of your villainies—burning, stealing, robbing, raping to this mortal day. Go on now, I’m saying, if you’d run from Kilmainham or the rope itself.
MICHAEL
taking off his coat.—Is it run from the like of you, holy father? Go up to your own shanty, or I’ll beat you with the ass’s reins till the world would hear you roaring from this place to the coast of Clare.
PRIEST
Is it lift your hand upon myself when the Lord would blight your members if you’d touch me now? Go on from this.
[He gives him a shove.
MICHAEL
Blight me is it? Take it then, your reverence, and God help you so.
[He runs at him with the reins.
PRIEST
runs up to ditch crying out.—There are the peelers passing by the grace of God—hey, below!
MARY
clapping her hand over his mouth.—Knock him down on the road; they didn’t hear him at all.
[Michael pulls him down.
SARAH
Gag his jaws.
MARY
Stuff the sacking in his teeth.
[They gag him with the sack that had the can in it.
SARAH
Tie the bag around his head, and if the peelers come, we’ll put him head-first in the boghole is beyond the ditch.
[They tie him up in some sacking.
MICHAEL
to Mary.—Keep him quiet, and the rags tight on him for fear he’d screech. (He goes back to their camp.) Hurry with the things, Sarah Casey. The peelers aren’t coming this way, and maybe we’ll get off from them now.
[They bundle the things together in wild haste, the priest wriggling and struggling about on the ground, with old Mary trying to keep him quiet.
MARY
patting his head.—Be quiet, your reverence. What is it ails you, with your wrigglings now? Is it choking maybe? (She puts her hand under the sack, and feels his mouth, patting him on the back.) It’s only letting on you are, holy father, for your nose is blowing back and forward as easy as an east wind on an April day. (In a soothing voice.) There now, holy father, let you stay easy, I’m telling you, and learn a little sense and patience, the way you’ll not be so airy again going to rob poor sinners of their scraps of gold. (He gets quieter.) That’s a good boy you are now, your reverence, and let you not be uneasy, for we wouldn’t hurt you at all. It’s sick and sorry we are to tease you; but what did you want meddling with the like of us, when it’s a long time we are going our own ways—father and son, and his son after him, or mother and daughter, and her own daughter again—and it’s little need we ever had of going up into a church and swearing—I’m told there’s swearing with it—a word no man would believe, or with drawing rings on our fingers, would be cutting our skins maybe when we’d be taking the ass from the shafts, and pulling the straps the time they’d be slippy with going around beneath the heavens in rains falling.
MICHAEL
who has finished bundling up the things, comes over to Sarah.—We’re fixed now; and I have a mind to run him in a boghole the way he’ll not be tattling to the peelers of our games to-day.
SARAH
You’d have a right too, I’m thinking.
MARY
soothingly.—Let you not be rough with him, Sarah Casey, and he after drinking his sup of porter with us at the fall of night. Maybe he’d swear a mighty oath he wouldn’t harm us, and then we’d safer loose him; for if we went to drown him, they’d maybe hang the batch of us, man and child and woman, and the ass itself.
MICHAEL
What would he care for an oath?
MARY
Don’t you know his like do live in terror of the wrath of God? (Putting her mouth to the Priest’s ear in the sacking.) Would you swear an oath, holy father, to leave us in our freedom, and not talk at all? (Priest nods in sacking.) Didn’t I tell you? Look at the poor fellow nodding his head off in the bias of the sacks. Strip them off from him, and he’ll be easy now.
MICHAEL
as if speaking to a horse.—Hold up, holy father.
[He pulls the sacking off, and shows the priest with his hair on end. They free his mouth.
MARY
Hold him till he swears.
PRIEST
in a faint voice.—I swear surely. If you let me go in peace, I’ll not inform against you or say a thing at all, and may God forgive me for giving heed unto your like to-day.
SARAH
puts the ring on his finger.—There’s the ring, holy father, to keep you minding of your oath until the end of time; for my heart’s scalded with your fooling; and it’ll be a long day till I go making talk of marriage or the like of that.
MARY
complacently, standing up slowly.—She’s vexed now, your reverence; and let you not mind her at all, for she’s right surely, and it’s little need we ever had of the like of you to get us our bit to eat, and our bit to drink, and our time of love when we were young men and women, and were fine to look at.
MICHAEL
Hurry on now. He’s a great man to have kept us from fooling our gold; and we’ll have a great time drinking that bit with the trampers on the green of Clash.
[They gather up their things. The priest stands up.
PRIEST
lifting up his hand.—I’ve sworn not to call the hand of man upon your crimes to-day; but I haven’t sworn I wouldn’t call the fire of heaven from the hand of the Almighty God.
[He begins saying a Latin malediction in a loud ecclesiastical voice.
MARY
There’s an old villain.
ALL
together.—Run, run. Run for your lives.
[They rush out, leaving the Priest master of the situation.
CURTAIN
