The Tinker's Wedding

PREFACE.

The drama is made serious—in the French sense of the word—not by the

degree in which it is taken up with problems that are serious in

themselves, but by the degree in which it gives the nourishment, not

very easy to define, on which our imaginations live. We should not go

to the theatre as we go to a chemist’s, or a dram-shop, but as we go to

a dinner, where the food we need is taken with pleasure and excitement.

This was nearly always so in Spain and England and France when the

drama was at its richest—the infancy and decay of the drama tend to be

didactic—but in these days the playhouse is too often stocked with the

drugs of many seedy problems, or with the absinthe or vermouth of the

last musical comedy.

The drama, like the symphony, does not teach or prove anything.

Analysts with their problems, and teachers with their systems, are soon

as old-fashioned as the pharmacopœia of Galen,—look at Ibsen and the

Germans—but the best plays of Ben Jonson and Molière can no more go out

of fashion than the black-berries on the hedges.

Of the things which nourish the imagination humour is one of the most

needful, and it is dangerous to limit or destroy it. Baudelaire calls

laughter the greatest sign of the Satanic element in man; and where a

country loses its humor, as some towns in Ireland are doing, there will

be morbidity of mind, as Baudelaire’s mind was morbid.

In the greater part of Ireland, however, the whole people, from the

tinkers to the clergy, have still a life, and view of life, that are

rich and genial and humorous. I do not think that these country people,

who have so much humor themselves, will mind being laughed at without

malice, as the people in every country have been laughed at in their

own comedies.

J. M. S.

_December 2nd_, 1907.

THE TINKER’S WEDDING

PERSONS

MICHAEL BYRNE, a tinker.

MARY BYRNE, an old woman, his mother.

SARAH CASEY, a young tinker woman.

A PRIEST.

ACT I.

SCENE: _A Village roadside after nightfall. A fire of sticks is burning

near the ditch a little to the right. Michael is working beside it. In

the background, on the left, a sort of tent and ragged clothes drying

on the hedge. On the right a chapel-gate._

SARAH CASEY

_coming in on right, eagerly._—We’ll see his reverence this place,

Michael Byrne, and he passing backward to his house to-night.

MICHAEL

_grimly._—That’ll be a sacred and a sainted joy!

SARAH

_sharply._—It’ll be small joy for yourself if you aren’t ready with my

wedding ring. _(She goes over to him.)_ Is it near done this time, or

what way is it at all?

MICHAEL

A poor way only, Sarah Casey, for it’s the divil’s job making a ring,

and you’ll be having my hands destroyed in a short while the way I’ll

not be able to make a tin can at all maybe at the dawn of day.

SARAH

_sitting down beside him and throwing sticks on the fire._—If it’s the

divil’s job, let you mind it, and leave your speeches that would choke

a fool.

MICHAEL

_slowly and glumly._—And it’s you’ll go talking of fools, Sarah Casey,

when no man did ever hear a lying story even of your like unto this

mortal day. You to be going beside me a great while, and rearing a lot

of them, and then to be setting off with your talk of getting married,

and your driving me to it, and I not asking it at all.

[_Sarah turns her back to him and arranges something in the ditch._

MICHAEL

_angrily._—Can’t you speak a word when I’m asking what is it ails you

since the moon did change?

SARAH

_musingly._—I’m thinking there isn’t anything ails me, Michael Byrne;

but the spring-time is a queer time, and it’s queer thoughts maybe I do

think at whiles.

MICHAEL

It’s hard set you’d be to think queerer than welcome, Sarah Casey; but

what will you gain dragging me to the priest this night, I’m saying,

when it’s new thoughts you’ll be thinking at the dawn of day?

SARAH

_teasingly._—It’s at the dawn of day I do be thinking I’d have a right

to be going off to the rich tinkers do be travelling from Tibradden to

the Tara Hill; for it’d be a fine life to be driving with young

Jaunting Jim, where there wouldn’t be any big hills to break the back

of you, with walking up and walking down.

MICHAEL

_with dismay._—It’s the like of that you do be thinking!

SARAH

The like of that, Michael Byrne, when there is a bit of sun in it, and

a kind air, and a great smell coming from the thorn-trees is above your

head.

MICHAEL

_looks at her for a moment with horror, and then hands her the

ring._—Will that fit you now?

SARAH

_trying it on._—It’s making it tight you are, and the edges sharp on

the tin.

MICHAEL

_looking at it carefully._—It’s the fat of your own finger, Sarah

Casey; and isn’t it a mad thing I’m saying again that you’d be asking

marriage of me, or making a talk of going away from me, and you

thriving and getting your good health by the grace of the Almighty God?

SARAH

_giving it back to him._—Fix it now, and it’ll do, if you’re wary you

don’t squeeze it again.

MICHAEL

_moodily, working again._—It’s easy saying be wary; there’s many things

easy said, Sarah Casey, you’d wonder a fool even would be saying at

all. _(He starts violently.)_ The divil mend you, I’m scalded again!

SARAH

_scornfully._—If you are, it’s a clumsy man you are this night, Michael

Byrne _(raising her voice)_; and let you make haste now, or herself

will be coming with the porter.

MICHAEL

_defiantly, raising his voice._—Let me make haste? I’ll be making haste

maybe to hit you a great clout; for I’m thinking on the day I got you

above at Rathvanna, and the way you began crying out and saying, “I’ll

go back to my ma,” and I’m thinking on the way I came behind you that

time, and hit you a great clout in the lug, and how quiet and easy it

was you came along with me from that hour to this present day.

SARAH

_standing up and throwing all her sticks into the fire._—And a big fool

I was too, maybe; but we’ll be seeing Jaunting Jim to-morrow in

Ballinaclash, and he after getting a great price for his white foal in

the horse-fair of Wicklow, the way it’ll be a great sight to see him

squandering his share of gold, and he with a grand eye for a fine

horse, and a grand eye for a woman.

MICHAEL

_working again with impatience._—The divil do him good with the two of

them.

SARAH

_kicking up the ashes with her foot._—Ah, he’s a great lad, I’m telling

you, and it’s proud and happy I’ll be to see him, and he the first one

called me the Beauty of Ballinacree, a fine name for a woman.

MICHAEL

_with contempt._—It’s the like of that name they do be putting on the

horses they have below racing in Arklow. It’s easy pleased you are,

Sarah Casey, easy pleased with a big word, or the liar speaks it.

SARAH

Liar!

MICHAEL

Liar, surely.

SARAH

_indignantly._—Liar, is it? Didn’t you ever hear tell of the peelers

followed me ten miles along the Glen Malure, and they talking love to

me in the dark night, or of the children you’ll meet coming from school

and they saying one to the other, “It’s this day we seen Sarah Casey,

the Beauty of Ballinacree, a great sight surely.”

MICHAEL

God help the lot of them!

SARAH

It’s yourself you’ll be calling God to help, in two weeks or three,

when you’ll be waking up in the dark night and thinking you see me

coming with the sun on me, and I driving a high cart with Jaunting Jim

going behind. It’s lonesome and cold you’ll be feeling the ditch where

you’ll be lying down that night, I’m telling you, and you hearing the

old woman making a great noise in her sleep, and the bats squeaking in

the trees.

MICHAEL

Whist. I hear some one coming the road.

SARAH

_looking out right._—It’s some one coming forward from the doctor’s

door.

MICHAEL

It’s often his reverence does be in there playing cards, or drinking a

sup, or singing songs, until the dawn of day.

SARAH

It’s a big boast of a man with a long step on him and a trumpeting

voice. It’s his reverence surely; and if you have the ring done, it’s a

great bargain we’ll make now and he after drinking his glass.

MICHAEL

_going to her and giving her the ring._—There’s your ring, Sarah Casey;

but I’m thinking he’ll walk by and not stop to speak with the like of

us at all.

SARAH

_tidying herself, in great excitement._—Let you be sitting here and

keeping a great blaze, the way he can look on my face; and let you seem

to be working, for it’s great love the like of him have to talk of

work.

MICHAEL

_moodily, sitting down and_ _beginning to work at a tin can._—Great

love surely.

SARAH

_eagerly._—Make a great blaze now, Michael Byrne.

[_The priest comes in on right; she comes forward in front of him._

SARAH

_in a very plausible voice._—Good evening, your reverence. It’s a grand

fine night, by the grace of God.

PRIEST

The Lord have mercy on us! What kind of a living woman is it that you

are at all?

SARAH

It’s Sarah Casey I am, your reverence, the Beauty of Ballinacree, and

it’s Michael Byrne is below in the ditch.

PRIEST

A holy pair, surely! Let you get out of my way.

[_He tries to pass by._

SARAH

_keeping in front of him._—We are wanting a little word with your

reverence.

PRIEST

I haven’t a halfpenny at all. Leave the road I’m saying.

SARAH

It isn’t a halfpenny we’re asking, holy father; but we were thinking

maybe we’d have a right to be getting married; and we were thinking

it’s yourself would marry us for not a halfpenny at all; for you’re a

kind man, your reverence, a kind man with the poor.

PRIEST

_with astonishment._—Is it marry you for nothing at all?

SARAH

It is, your reverence; and we were thinking maybe you’d give us a

little small bit of silver to pay for the ring.

PRIEST

_loudly._—Let you hold your tongue; let you be quiet, Sarah Casey. I’ve

no silver at all for the like of you; and if you want to be married,

let you pay your pound. I’d do it for a pound only, and that’s making

it a sight cheaper than I’d make it for one of my own pairs is living

here in the place.

SARAH

Where would the like of us get a pound, your reverence?

PRIEST

Wouldn’t you easy get it with your selling asses, and making cans, and

your stealing east and west in Wicklow and Wexford and the county

Meath? _(He tries to pass her.)_ Let you leave the road, and not be

plaguing me more.

SARAH

_pleadingly, taking money from her pocket._—Wouldn’t you have a little

mercy on us, your reverence? _(Holding out money.)_ Wouldn’t you marry

us for a half a sovereign, and it a nice shiny one with a view on it of

the living king’s mamma?

PRIEST

If it’s ten shillings you have, let you get ten more the same way, and

I’ll marry you then.

SARAH

_whining._—It’s two years we are getting that bit, your reverence, with

our pence and our halfpence and an odd three-penny bit; and if you

don’t marry us now, himself and the old woman, who has a great drouth,

will be drinking it to-morrow in the fair _(she puts her apron to her

eyes, half sobbing)_, and then I won’t be married any time, and I’ll be

saying till I’m an old woman: “It’s a cruel and a wicked thing to be

bred poor.”

PRIEST

_turning up towards the fire._—Let you not be crying, Sarah Casey. It’s

a queer woman you are to be crying at the like of that, and you your

whole life walking the roads.

SARAH

_sobbing._—It’s two years we are getting the gold, your reverence, and

now you won’t marry us for that bit, and we hard-working poor people do

be making cans in the dark night, and blinding our eyes with the black

smoke from the bits of twigs we do be burning.

[_An old woman is heard singing tipsily on the left._

PRIEST

_looking at the can Michael is making._—When will you have that can

done, Michael Byrne?

MICHAEL

In a short space only, your reverence, for I’m putting the last dab of

solder on the rim.

PRIEST

Let you get a crown along with the ten shillings and the gallon can,

Sarah Casey, and I will wed you so.

MARY

_suddenly shouting behind, tipsily._—Larry was a fine lad, I’m saying;

Larry was a fine lad, Sarah Casey—

MICHAEL

Whist, now, the two of you. There’s my mother coming, and she’d have us

destroyed if she heard the like of that talk the time she’s been

drinking her fill.

MARY

_comes in singing_

And when we asked him what way he’d die,

And he hanging unrepented,

“Begob,” says Larry, “that’s all in my eye,

By the clergy first invented.”

SARAH

Give me the jug now, or you’ll have it spilt in the ditch.

MARY

_holding the jug with both her hands, in a stilted voice._—Let you

leave me easy, Sarah Casey. I won’t spill it, I’m saying. God help you;

are you thinking it’s frothing full to the brim it is at this hour of

the night, and I after carrying it in my two hands a long step from

Jemmy Neill’s?

MICHAEL

_anxiously._—Is there a sup left at all?

SARAH

_looking into the jug._—A little small sup only I’m thinking.

MARY

_sees the priest, and holds out jug towards him._—God save your

reverence. I’m after bringing down a smart drop; and let you drink it

up now, for it’s a middling drouthy man you are at all times, God

forgive you, and this night is cruel dry.

[_She tries to go towards him. Sarah holds her back._

PRIEST

_waving her away._—Let you not be falling to the flames. Keep off, I’m

saying.

MARY

_persuasively._—Let you not be shy of us, your reverence. Aren’t we all

sinners, God help us! Drink a sup now, I’m telling you; and we won’t

let on a word about it till the Judgment Day.

[_She takes up a tin mug, pours some porter into it, and gives it to

him._

MARY

_singing, and holding the jug in her hand._

A lonesome ditch in Ballygan

The day you’re beating a tenpenny can;

A lonesome bank in Ballyduff

The time . . .

[_She breaks off._ It’s a bad, wicked song, Sarah Casey; and let you

put me down now in the ditch, and I won’t sing it till himself will be

gone; for it’s bad enough he is, I’m thinking, without ourselves making

him worse.

SARAH

_putting her down, to the priest, half laughing._—Don’t mind her at

all, your reverence. She’s no shame the time she’s a drop taken; and if

it was the Holy Father from Rome was in it, she’d give him a little sup

out of her mug, and say the same as she’d say to yourself.

MARY

_to the priest._—Let you drink it up, holy father. Let you drink it up,

I’m saying, and not be letting on you wouldn’t do the like of it, and

you with a stack of pint bottles above, reaching the sky.

PRIEST

_with resignation._—Well, here’s to your good health, and God forgive

us all.

[_He drinks._

MARY

That’s right now, your reverence, and the blessing of God be on you.

Isn’t it a grand thing to see you sitting down, with no pride in you,

and drinking a sup with the like of us, and we the poorest, wretched,

starving creatures you’d see any place on the earth?

PRIEST

If it’s starving you are itself, I’m thinking it’s well for the like of

you that do be drinking when there’s drouth on you, and lying down to

sleep when your legs are stiff. _(He sighs gloomily.)_ What would you

do if it was the like of myself you were, saying Mass with your mouth

dry, and running east and west for a sick call maybe, and hearing the

rural people again and they saying their sins?

MARY

_with compassion._—It’s destroyed you must be hearing the sins of the

rural people on a fine spring.

PRIEST

_with despondency._—It’s a hard life, I’m telling you, a hard life,

Mary Byrne; and there’s the bishop coming in the morning, and he an old

man, would have you destroyed if he seen a thing at all.

MARY

_with great sympathy._—It’d break my heart to hear you talking and

sighing the like of that, your reverence. _(She pats him on the knee.)_

Let you rouse up, now, if it’s a poor, single man you are itself, and

I’ll be singing you songs unto the dawn of day.

PRIEST

_interrupting her._—What is it I want with your songs when it’d be

better for the like of you, that’ll soon die, to be down on your two

knees saying prayers to the Almighty God?

MARY

If it’s prayers I want, you’d have a right to say one yourself, holy

father; for we don’t have them at all, and I’ve heard tell a power of

times it’s that you’re for. Say one now, your reverence, for I’ve heard

a power of queer things and I walking the world, but there’s one thing

I never heard any time, and that’s a real priest saying a prayer.

PRIEST

The Lord protect us!

MARY

It’s no lie, holy father. I often heard the rural people making a queer

noise and they going to rest; but who’d mind the like of them? And I’m

thinking it should be great game to hear a scholar, the like of you,

speaking Latin to the saints above.

PRIEST

_scandalized._—Stop your talking, Mary Byrne; you’re an old flagrant

heathen, and I’ll stay no more with the lot of you.

[_He rises._

MARY

_catching hold of him._—Stop till you say a prayer, your reverence;

stop till you say a little prayer, I’m telling you, and I’ll give you

my blessing and the last sup from the jug.

PRIEST

_breaking away._—Leave me go, Mary Byrne; for I have never met your

like for hard abominations the score and two years I’m living in the

place.

MARY

_innocently._—Is that the truth?

PRIEST

—It is, then, and God have mercy on your soul.

[_The priest goes towards the left, and Sarah follows him._

SARAH

_in a low voice._—And what time will you do the thing I’m asking, holy

father? for I’m thinking you’ll do it surely, and not have me growing

into an old wicked heathen like herself.

MARY

_calling out shrilly._—Let you be walking back here, Sarah Casey, and

not be talking whisper-talk with the like of him in the face of the

Almighty God.

SARAH

_to the priest._—Do you hear her now, your reverence? Isn’t it true,

surely, she’s an old, flagrant heathen, would destroy the world?

PRIEST

_to Sarah, moving off._—Well, I’ll be coming down early to the chapel,

and let you come to me a while after you see me passing, and bring the

bit of gold along with you, and the tin can. I’ll marry you for them

two, though it’s a pitiful small sum; for I wouldn’t be easy in my soul

if I left you growing into an old, wicked heathen the like of her.

SARAH

_following him out._—The blessing of the Almighty God be on you, holy

father, and that He may reward and watch you from this present day.

MARY

_nudging Michael._—Did you see that, Michael Byrne? Didn’t you hear me

telling you she’s flighty a while back since the change of the moon?

With her fussing for marriage, and she making whisper-talk with one man

or another man along by the road.

MICHAEL

—Whist now, or she’ll knock the head of you the time she comes back.

MARY

—Ah, it’s a bad, wicked way the world is this night, if there’s a fine

air in it itself. You’d never have seen me, and I a young woman, making

whisper-talk with the like of him, and he the fearfullest old fellow

you’d see any place walking the world.

[_Sarah comes back quickly._

MARY

_calling out to her._—What is it you’re after whispering above with

himself?

SARAH

_exultingly._—Lie down, and leave us in peace. _She whispers with

Michael._

MARY

_poking out her pipe with a straw, sings_—

She’d whisper with one, and she’d whisper with two—

_She breaks off coughing._—My singing voice is gone for this night,

Sarah Casey. _(She lights her pipe.)_ But if it’s flighty you are

itself, you’re a grand handsome woman, the glory of tinkers, the pride

of Wicklow, the Beauty of Ballinacree. I wouldn’t have you lying down

and you lonesome to sleep this night in a dark ditch when the spring is

coming in the trees; so let you sit down there by the big bough, and

I’ll be telling you the finest story you’d hear any place from Dundalk

to Ballinacree, with great queens in it, making themselves matches from

the start to the end, and they with shiny silks on them the length of

the day, and white shifts for the night.

MICHAEL

_standing up with the tin can in his hand._—Let you go asleep, and not

have us destroyed.

MARY

_lying back sleepily._—Don’t mind him, Sarah Casey. Sit down now, and

I’ll be telling you a story would be fit to tell a woman the like of

you in the springtime of the year.

SARAH

_taking the can from Michael, and tying it up in a piece of

sacking._—That’ll not be rusting now in the dews of night. I’ll put it

up in the ditch the way it will be handy in the morning; and now we’ve

that done, Michael Byrne, I’ll go along with you and welcome for Tim

Flaherty’s hens.

_[She puts the can in the ditch._

MARY

_sleepily._—I’ve a grand story of the great queens of Ireland with

white necks on them the like of Sarah Casey, and fine arms would hit

you a slap the way Sarah Casey would hit you.

SARAH

_beckoning on the left._—Come along now, Michael, while she’s falling

asleep.

[_He goes towards left. Mary sees that they are going, starts up

suddenly, and turns over on her hands and knees._

MARY

_piteously._—Where is it you’re going? Let you walk back here, and not

be leaving me lonesome when the night is fine.

SARAH

Don’t be waking the world with your talk when we’re going up through

the back wood to get two of Tim Flaherty’s hens are roosting in the

ash-tree above at the well.

MARY

And it’s leaving me lone you are? Come back here, Sarah Casey. Come

back here, I’m saying; or if it’s off you must go, leave me the two

little coppers you have, the way I can walk up in a short while, and

get another pint for my sleep.

SARAH

It’s too much you have taken. Let you stretch yourself out and take a

long sleep; for isn’t that the best thing any woman can do, and she an

old drinking heathen like yourself.

[_She and Michael go out left._

MARY

_standing up slowly._—It’s gone they are, and I with my feet that weak

under me you’d knock me down with a rush, and my head with a noise in

it the like of what you’d hear in a stream and it running between two

rocks and rain falling. _(She goes over to the ditch where the can is

tied in sacking, and takes it down.)_ What good am I this night, God

help me? What good are the grand stories I have when it’s few would

listen to an old woman, few but a girl maybe would be in great fear the

time her hour was come, or a little child wouldn’t be sleeping with the

hunger on a cold night? _(She takes the can from the sacking and fits

in three empty bottles and straw in its place, and ties them up.)_

Maybe the two of them have a good right to be walking out the little

short while they’d be young; but if they have itself, they’ll not keep

Mary Byrne from her full pint when the night’s fine, and there’s a dry

moon in the sky. _(She takes up the can, and puts the package back in

the ditch.)_ Jemmy Neill’s a decent lad; and he’ll give me a good drop

for the can; and maybe if I keep near the peelers to-morrow for the

first bit of the fair, herself won’t strike me at all; and if she does

itself, what’s a little stroke on your head beside sitting lonesome on

a fine night, hearing the dogs barking, and the bats squeaking, and you

saying over, it’s a short while only till you die.

[_She goes out singing “The night before Larry was stretched.”_

CURTAIN

ACT II.

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