Chapter VI (6)

SHEELA. Look at poor Sheamus. He is going over to her. (SHEAMUS _gets up and goes over to her._)

SHEAMUS. Will you dance this reel with me, Oona, as soon as the piper is ready?

HANRAHAN (_rising up_). I am Tumaus Hanrahan, and I am speaking now to Oona ni Regaun; and as she is willing to be talking to me, I will allow no living person to come between us.

SHEAMUS (_without heeding_ HANRAHAN). Will you not dance with me, Oona?

HANRAHAN (_savagely_). Didn't I tell you now that it was to me Oona ni Regaun was talking? Leave that on the spot, you clown, and do not raise a disturbance here.

SHEAMUS. Oona----

HANRAHAN (_shouting_). Leave that! (SHEAMUS _goes away, and comes over to the two old women._)

SHEAMUS. Maurya Regaun, I am asking leave of you to throw that ill-mannerly, drunken vagabond out of the house. Myself and my two brothers will put him out if you will allow us; and when he's outside I'll settle with him.

MAURYA. Sheamus, do not; I am afraid of him. That man has a curse they say that would split the trees.

SHEAMUS. I don't care if he had a curse that would overthrow the heavens; it is on me it will fall, and I defy him! If he were to kill me on the moment, I will not allow him to put his spells on Oona. Give me leave, Maurya.

SHEELA. Do not, Sheamus. I have a better advice than that.

SHEAMUS. What advice is that?

SHEELA. I have a way in my head to put him out. If you follow my advice, he will go out himself as quiet as a lamb; and when you get him out, slap the door on him, and never let him in again.

MAURYA. Luck from God on you, Sheela, and tell us what's in your head.

SHEELA. We will do it as nice and easy as you ever saw. We will put him to twist a hay-rope till he is outside, and then we will shut the door on him.

SHEAMUS. It's easy to say, but not easy to do. He will say to you, "Make a hay-rope yourself."

SHEELA. We will say then that no one ever saw a hay-rope made, that there is no one at all in the house to make the beginning of it.

SHEAMUS. But will _he_ believe that we never saw a hay-rope?

SHEELA. He believe it, is it? He'd believe anything; he'd believe that himself is king over Ireland when he has a glass taken, as he has now.

SHEAMUS. But what excuse can we make for saying we want a hay-rope?

MAURYA. Can't you think of something yourself, Sheamus?

SHEAMUS. Sure, I can say the wind is rising, and I must bind the thatch, or it will be off the house.

SHEELA. But he'll know the wind is not rising if he does but listen at the door. You must think of some other excuse, Sheamus.

SHEAMUS. Wait, I have a good idea now; say there is a coach upset at the bottom of the hill, and that they are asking for a hay-rope to mend it with. He can't see as far as that from the door, and he won't know it's not true it is.

MAURYA. That's the story, Sheela. Now, Sheamus, go among the people and tell them the secret. Tell them what they have to say, that no one at all in this country ever saw a hay-rope, and put a good skin on the lie yourself. (SHEAMUS _goes from person to person whispering to them, and some of them begin laughing._ _The piper has begun playing. Three or four couples rise up._)

HANRAHAN (_after looking at them for a couple of minutes_). Whisht! Let ye sit down! Do ye call that dragging, dancing? You are tramping the floor like so many cattle. You are as heavy as bullocks, as awkward as asses. May my throat be choked if I would not sooner be looking at as many lame ducks hopping on one leg through the house. Leave the floor to Oona ni Regaun and to me.

ONE OF THE MEN GOING TO DANCE. And for what would we leave the floor to you?

HANRAHAN. The swan of the brink of the waves, the royal phoenix, the pearl of the white breast, the Venus amongst the women, Oona ni Regaun, is standing up with me, and any place she rises up, the sun and the moon bow to her, and so shall ye yet. She is too handsome, too sky-like for any other woman to be near her. But wait a while! Before I'll show you how the Connacht boy can dance, I will give you the poem I made on the star of the province of Munster, on Oona ni Regaun. Get up, O sun among women, and we will sing the song together, verse about, and then we'll show them what right dancing is! (OONA _rises._)

HANRAHAN.

She is white Oona of the yellow hair,
The Coolin that was destroying my heart inside me;
She is my secret love and my lasting affection;
I care not for ever for any woman but her.

OONA.

O bard of the black eye, it is you
Who have found victory in the world and fame;
I call on yourself and I praise your mouth;
You have set my heart in my breast astray.

HANRAHAN.

O fair Oona of the golden hair,
My desire, my affection, my love and my store,
Herself will go with her bard afar;
She has hurt his heart in his breast greatly.

OONA.

I would not think the night long nor the day,
Listening to your fine discourse;
More melodious is your mouth than the singing of the birds;
From my heart in my breast you have found love.

HANRAHAN.

I walked myself the entire world,
England, Ireland, France, and Spain;
I never saw at home or afar
Any girl under the sun like fair Oona.

OONA.

I have heard the melodious harp
On the streets of Cork playing to us;
More melodious by far I thought your voice,
More melodious by far your mouth than that.

HANRAHAN.

I was myself one time a poor barnacle goose;
The night was not plain to me more than the day
Till I got sight of her; she is the love of my heart
That banished from me my grief and my misery.

OONA.

I was myself on the morning of yesterday
Walking beside the wood at the break of day;
There was a bird there was singing sweetly,
How I love love, and is it not beautiful?

(_A shout and a noise, and_ SHEAMUS O'HERAN _rushes in._)

SHEAMUS. Ububu! Ohone-y-o, go deo! The big coach is overthrown at the foot of the hill! The bag in which the letters of the country are is bursted; and there is neither tie, nor cord, nor rope, nor anything to bind it up. They are calling out now for a hay sugaun--whatever kind of thing that is; the letters and the coach will be lost for want of a hay sugaun to bind them.

HANRAHAN. Do not be bothering us; we have our poem done, and we are going to dance. The coach does not come this way at all.

SHEAMUS. The coach does come this way now; but sure you're a stranger, and you don't know. Doesn't the coach come over the hill now, neighbours?

ALL. It does, it does, surely.

HANRAHAN. I don't care whether it does come or whether it doesn't. I would sooner twenty coaches to be overthrown on the road than the pearl of the white breast to be stopped from dancing to us. Tell the coachman to twist a rope for himself.

SHEAMUS. Oh! murder! he can't. There's that much vigour, and fire, and activity, and courage in the horses, that my poor coachman must take them by the heads; it's on the pinch of his life he's able to control them; he's afraid of his soul they'll go from him of a rout. They are neighing like anything; you never saw the like of them for wild horses.

HANRAHAN. Are there no other people in the coach that will make a rope, if the coachman has to be at the horses' heads? Leave that, and let us dance.

SHEAMUS. There are three others in it; but as to one of them, he is one-handed, and another man of them, he's shaking and trembling with the fright he got; it's not in him now to stand up on his two feet with the fear that's on him; and as for the third man, there isn't a person in this country would speak to him about a rope at all, for his own father was hanged with a rope last year for stealing sheep.

HANRAHAN. Then let one of yourselves twist a rope so, and leave the floor to us. (_To_ OONA.) Now, O star of women, show me how Juno goes among the gods, or Helen for whom Troy was destroyed. By my word, since Deirdre died, for whom Naoise son of Usnech, was put to death, her heir is not in Ireland to-day but yourself. Let us begin.

SHEAMUS. Do not begin until we have a rope; we are not able to twist a rope; there's nobody here can twist a rope.

HANRAHAN. There's nobody here is able to twist a rope?

ALL. Nobody at all.

SHEELA. And that's true; nobody in this place ever made a hay sugaun. I don't believe there's a person in this house who ever saw one itself but me. It's well I remember when I was a little girsha that I saw one of them on a goat that my grandfather brought with him out of Connacht. All the people used to be saying: "Aurah, what sort of a thing is that at all?" And he said that it was a sugaun that was in it; and that people used to make the like of that down in Connacht. He said that one man would go holding the hay, and another man twisting it. I'll hold the hay now; and you'll go twisting it.

SHEAMUS. I'll bring in a lock of hay. (_He goes out._)

HANRAHAN.

I will make a dispraising of the province of Munster
They do not leave the floor to us;
It isn't in them to twist even a sugaun;
The province of Munster without nicety, without prosperity.

Disgust for ever on the province of Munster,
That they do not leave us the floor;
The province of Munster of the foul clumsy people.
They cannot even twist a sugaun!

SHEAMUS (_coming back_). Here's the hay now.

HANRAHAN. Give it here to me; I'll show ye what the well-learned, hardy, honest, clever, sensible Connachtman will do, that has activity and full deftness in his hands, and sense in his head, and courage in his heart; but that the misfortune and the great trouble of the world directed him among the _lebidins_ of the province of Munster, without honour, without nobility, without knowledge of the swan beyond the duck, or of the gold beyond the brass, or of the lily beyond the thistle, or of the star of young women, and the pearl of the white breast, beyond their own share of sluts and slatterns. Give me a kippeen. (_A man hands him a stick; he puts a wisp of hay round it, and begins twisting it; and_ SHEELA _giving him out the hay._)

HANRAHAN.

There is a pearl of a woman giving light to us;
She is my love; she is my desire;
She is fair Oona, the gentle queen-woman.
And the Munstermen do not understand half her courtesy.

These Munstermen are blinded by God;
They do not recognise the swan beyond the grey duck;
But she will come with me, my fine Helen,
Where her person and her beauty shall be praised for ever.

Arrah, wisha, wisha, wisha! isn't this the fine village? isn't this the exceeding village? The village where there be that many rogues hanged that the people have no want of ropes with all the ropes that they steal from the hangman!

The sensible Connachtman makes
A rope for himself;
But the Munsterman steals it
From the hangman;
That I may see a fine rope,
A rope of hemp yet,
A stretching on the throats
Of every person here!

On account of one woman only the Greeks departed, and they never stopped, and they never greatly stayed, till they destroyed Troy; and on account of one woman only this village shall be damned; _go deo, ma neoir_, and to the womb of judgment, by God of the graces, eternally and everlastingly, because they did not understand that Oona ni Regaun is the second Helen, who was born in their midst, and that she overcame in beauty Deirdre and Venus, and all that came before or that will come after her!

But she will come with me, my pearl of a woman,
To the province of Connacht of the fine people;
She will receive feasts, wine, and meat,
High dances, sport, and music!

Oh, wisha, wisha! that the sun may never rise upon this village; and that the stars may never shine on it and that----. (_He is by this time outside the door. All the men make a rush at the door and shut it._ OONA _runs towards the door, but the women seize her._ SHEAMUS _goes over to her._)

OONA. Oh! oh! oh! do not put him out; let him back; that is Tumaus Hanrahan--he is a poet--he is a bard--he is a wonderful man. O, let him back; do not do that to him!

SHEAMUS. O Oona _bán, acushla dílis_, let him be; he is gone now, and his share of spells with him! He will be gone out of your head to-morrow; and you will be gone out of his head. Don't you know that I like you better than a hundred thousand Deirdres, and that you are my one pearl of a woman in the world?

HANRAHAN (_outside, beating on the door_). Open, open, open; let me in! Oh, my seven hundred thousand curses on you--the curse of the weak and of the strong--the curse of the poets and of the bards upon you! The curse of the priests on you and the friars! The curse of the bishops upon you, and the Pope! The curse of the widows on you, and the children! Open! (_He beats on the door again and again._)

SHEAMUS. I am thankful to ye, neighbours; and Oona will be thankful to ye to-morrow. Beat away, you vagabond! Do your dancing out there with yourself now! Isn't it a fine thing for a man to be listening to the storm outside, and himself quiet and easy beside the fire? Beat away, beat away! Where's Connacht now?

THE MARRIAGE

MARTIN, _a young man._

MARY. _His newly married wife._

A BLIND FIDDLER.

NEIGHBOURS.

SCENE.--_A cottage kitchen. A table poorly set out, with two cups, a jug of milk, and a cake of bread._ MARTIN _and_ MARY _sitting down to it._

MARTIN. This is a poor wedding dinner I have for you, Mary; and a poor house I brought you to. I wish it was seven thousand times better for your sake.

MARY. Only we have to part again, there wouldn't be in the world a pair happier than myself and yourself; but where's the good of fretting when there's no help for it?

MARTIN. If I had but a couple of pounds, I could buy a little ass and earn a share of money bringing turf to the big town; or I could job at the fairs. But, my grief, we haven't it, or ten shillings.

MARY. And if I could get but a few hens, and what would feed them, I could be selling the eggs or rearing chickens. But unless God would work a miracle for us, there's no chance of that itself. (_She wipes her eyes with her apron._)

MARTIN. Don't be crying, Mary. You belong to me now; am I not rich so long as you belong to me? Whatever place I will go to I will know you are thinking of me.

MARY. That is a true word you say, Martin; I will never be poor so long as I know you to be thinking of me. No riches at all would be so good as that. There's a line my poor father used to be saying:--

'Cattle and gold, store and goods,
They pass away like the high floods.'

It was Raftery, the blind man, said that. I never saw him; but my father used to be talking of him.

MARTIN. I don't care what he said. I wish we had goods and store. He said the exact contrary another time:--

'Brogues in the fashion, a good house,
Are better than the bare sky over us.'

MARY. Poor Raftery! he'd give us all that if he had the chance. He was always a good friend to the poor. I heard them saying the other day he was lying in his sickness at some place near Killeenan, and near his death. The Lord have mercy on him!

MARTIN. The Lord have mercy on him, indeed. Come now, Mary, eat the first bit in your own house. I'll take the eggs off the fire.

(_He gets up and goes to the fire. There is a knock at the half-door, and an old ragged, patched fiddler puts in his head._)

FIDDLER. God save all here!

MARY (_standing up_). Aurah, the poor man, bring him in.

MARTIN. Let there be sense on you, Mary; we have not anything at all to give him. I will tell him the way to the Brennans' house: there will be plenty to find there.

MARY. Indeed and surely I will not put him from this door. This is the first time I ever had a house of my own; and I will not send anyone at all from my own door this day.

MARTIN. Do as you think well yourself. (MARY _goes to the door and opens it._) Come in, honest man, and sit down, and a hundred welcomes before you. (_The old man comes in, feeling about him as if blind._)

MARY. O Martin, he is blind. May God preserve him!

OLD MAN. That is so, acushla; I am in my blindness; and it is a tired, vexed, blind man I am. I am going and ever going since morning, and I never found a bit to eat since I rose.

MARY. You did not find a bit to eat since morning! Are you starving?

OLD MAN. Oh, indeed, there was food to be got if I would take it; but the bit that does not come from a willing heart, there would be no taste on it; and that is what I did not get since morning; but people putting a potato or a bit of bread out of the door to me, as if I was a dog, with the hope I would not stop, but would go away.

MARY. Oh, sit down with us now, and eat with us. Bring him to the table, Martin. (MARTIN _gives his hand to the old man, and gives him a chair, and puts him sitting at the table with themselves. He makes two halves of the cake, and gives a half to the blind man, and one of the eggs. The old man eats eagerly._)

OLD MAN. I leave my seven hundred thousand blessings on the people of this house. The blessing of God and Mary on them.

MARY. That it may be well with you. O Martin, that is the first blessing I got in my own house. That blessing is better to me than gold.

OLD MAN. Aurah, is it not beautiful for people to have a house of their own, and to have eyes to look about with?

MARTIN. May God preserve you, right man; it is likely it is a poor thing to be without sight.

OLD MAN. You do not understand, nor any person that has his sight, what it is to be blind and dark the way I am. Not to have before you and behind you but the night. Oh, darkness, darkness! No shape or form in anything; not to see the bird you hear singing in the tree over your head; nor the flower you smell on the bush, or the child, and he laughing in his mother's breast. The morning and the evening the day and the night, only the same thing to you Oh, it is a poor thing to be blind! (MARTIN _puts over the other half of the cake and the egg to_ MARY, _and makes a sign to her to eat. She makes a sign to him to take a share of them. The blind man stretches his hand over the table to try for a crumb of bread, for he has eaten his own share; and he gets hold of the other half cake and takes it._)

MARY. Eat that, poor man, it is likely there is hunger on you. Here is another egg for you. (_She puts the other egg in his hand._)

BLIND MAN. The blessing of the Only Son and of the Holy Mother on the hand that gives it. (MARTIN _puts up his two hands as if dissatisfied; and he is going to say something when_ MARY _takes the words from his mouth, laughing at his gloomy face._)

BLIND MAN. _Maisead_, my blessing on the mouth that laughter came from, and my blessing on the light heart that let it out of the mouth.

MARTIN. A light heart, is it! There is not a light heart with Mary to-night, my grief!

BLIND MAN. Mary is your wife?

MARTIN. She is. I made her my wife three hours ago.

BLIND MAN. Three hours ago?

MARTIN (_bitterly_).--That is so. We were married to-day; and it is at our wedding dinner you are sitting.

BLIND MAN. Your wedding dinner! Do not be mocking me! There is no company here.

MARY. Oh, he is not mocking you; he would not do a thing like that. There is no company here; for we have nothing in the house to give them.

BLIND MAN. But you gave it to me! Is it the truth you are speaking? Am I the only person that was asked to your wedding?

MARY. You are. But that is to the honour of God; and we would never have told you that, but Martin let slip the word from his mouth.

BLIND MAN. Oh, and I eat your little feast on you, and without knowing it.

MARY. It is not without a welcome you eat it.

MARTIN. I am well pleased you came in; you were more in want of it than ourselves. If we have a bare house now, we might have a full house yet; and a good dinner on the table to share with those in need of it. I'd be better off now; but all the little money I had I laid it out on the house, and the little patch of land. I thought I was wise at the time; but now we have the house, and we haven't what will keep us alive in it. I have the potatoes set in the garden; but I haven't so much as a potato to eat. We are left bare, and I am guilty of it.

MARY. If there is any fault, it is on me it is; coming maybe to be a drag on Martin, where I have no fortune at all. The little money I gained in service, I lost it all on my poor father, when he took sick. And I went back into service; and the mistress I had was a cross woman; and when Martin saw the way she was treating me, he wouldn't let me stop with her any more, but he made me his wife. And now I will have great courage, when I have to go out to service again.

BLIND MAN. Will you have to be parted again?

MARTIN. We will, indeed; I must go as a _spailpin fanac_, to reap and to dig the harvest in some other place. But Mary and myself have it settled we'll meet again at this house on a certain day, with the blessing of God. I'll have the key in my pocket; and we'll come in, with a better chance of stopping in it. You'll have your own cows yet, Mary; and your calves and your firkins of butter, with the help of God.

MARY. I think I hear carts on the road. (_She gets up, and goes to the door._)

MARTIN. It's the people coming back from the fair. Shut the door, Mary; I wouldn't like them to see how bare the house is; and I'll put a smear of ashes on the window, the way they won't see we're here at all.

BLIND MAN (_raising his head suddenly_). Do not do that; but open the door wide, and let the blessing of God come in on you. (MARY _opens the door again. He takes up his fiddle, and begins to play on it. A little boy puts in his head at the door; and then another head is seen, and another with that again._)

BLIND MAN. Who is that at the door?

MARY. Little boys that came to listen to you.

BLIND MAN. Come in, boys. (_Three or four come inside._)

BLIND MAN. Boys, I am listening to the carts coming home from the fair. Let you go out, and stop the people; tell them they must come in: there is a wedding-dance here this evening.

BOY. The people are going home. They wouldn't stop for us.

BLIND MAN. Tell them to come in; and there will be as fine a dance as ever they saw. But they must all give a present to the man and woman that are newly married.

ANOTHER BOY. Why would they come in? They can have a dance of their own at any time. There is a piper in the big town.

BLIND MAN. Say to them that _I myself_ tell them to come in; and to bring every one a present to the newly-married woman.

BOY. And who are you yourself?

BLIND MAN. Tell them it is Raftery the poet is here, and that is calling to them.

(_The boys run out, tumbling over one another._)

MARTIN. Are you Raftery, the great poet I heard talk of since I was born! (_taking his hand_). Seven hundred thousand welcomes before you; and it is a great honour to us you to be here.

MARY. Raftery the poet! Now there is luck on us! The first man that brought us his blessing, and that eat food in my own house, he to be Raftery the poet! And I hearing the other day you were sick and near your death. And I see no sign of sickness on you now.

BLIND MAN. I am well, I am well now, the Lord be praised for it.

MARTIN. I heard talk of you as often as there are fingers on my hands, and toes on my feet. But indeed I never thought to have the luck of seeing you.

MARY. And it is you that made 'County Mayo,' and the 'Repentance,' and 'The Weaver,' and the 'Shining Flower.' It is often I thought there should be no woman in the world so proud as Mary Hynes, with the way you praised her.

BLIND MAN. O my poor Mary Hynes, without luck! (_They hear the wheels of a cart outside the house, and an old farmer comes in, a frieze coat on him._)

OLD FARMER. God save you, Martin; and is this your wife? God be with you, woman of the house. And, O Raftery, seven hundred thousand welcomes before you to this country. I would sooner see you than King George. When they told me you were here, I said to myself I would not go past without seeing you, if I didn't get home till morning.

BLIND MAN. But didn't you get my message?

OLD FARMER. What message is that?

BLIND MAN. Didn't they tell you to bring a present to the new-married woman and her husband. What have you got for them?

OLD FARMER. Wait till I see; I have something in the cart. (_He goes out._)

MARTIN. O Raftery, you see now what a great name you have here. (_Old farmer comes in again_ _with a bag of meal on his shoulders. He throws it on the floor._)

OLD FARMER. Four bags of meal I was bringing from the mill; and there is one of them for the woman of the house.

MARY. A thousand thanks to God and you. (MARTIN _carries the bag to other side of table._)

BLIND MAN. Now don't forget the fiddler. (_He takes a plate and holds it out._)

OLD FARMER. I'll not break my word, Raftery, the first time you came to this country. There is two shillings for you in the plate. (_He throws the money into it._)

BLIND MAN.

This is a man has love to God,
Opening his hand to give out food;
Better a small house filled with wheat,
Than a big house that's bare of meat.

OLD FARMER. _Maisead_, long life to you, Raftery.

BLIND MAN. Are you there, boy?

BOY. I am.

BLIND MAN. I hear more wheels coming. Go out, and tell the people Raftery will let no person come in here without a present for the woman of the house.

BOY. I am going. (_He goes out._)

OLD FARMER. They say there was not the like of you for a poet in Connacht these hundred years back.

(_A middle-aged woman comes in, a pound of tea and a parcel of sugar in her hand._)

WOMAN. God save all here! I heard Raftery the poet was in it; and I brought this little present to the woman of the house. (_Puts them into_ MARY'S _hands._) I would sooner see Raftery than be out there in the cart.

BLIND MAN. Don't forget the fiddler, O right woman.

WOMAN. And are you Raftery?

BLIND MAN.

I am Raftery the poet,
Full of gentleness and love;
With eyes without light,
With quietness, without misery.

WOMAN. Good the man.

BLIND MAN.

Quick, quick, quick, for no man
Need speak twice to a handy woman;
I'll praise you when I hear the clatter
Of your shilling on my platter.

(_A young man comes in with a side of bacon in his arms, and stands waiting._)

WOMAN. Indeed, I would not begrudge it to you if it was a piece of gold I had (_puts shilling in plate_). The 'Repentance' you made is at the end of my fingers. Here's another customer for you now. (_The young man comes forward, and gives the bacon to_ MARTIN, _who puts it with the meal._)

MARY. I thank you kindly. Oh, it's like the miracle worked for Saint Colman, sending him his dinner in the bare hills!

BLIND MAN.

May that young man with yellow hair
Find yellow money everywhere!

FAIR YOUNG MAN. I heard the world and his wife were stopping at the door to give a welcome to Raftery, and I thought I would not be behindhand. And here is something for the fiddler (_puts money in the plate_). I would sooner see that fiddler than any other fiddler in the world.

BLIND MAN.

May that young man with yellow hair
Buy cheap, sell dear, in every fair.

FAIR YOUNG MAN (_to_ MARTIN). How does he know I have yellow hair and he blind? How does he know that?

MARTIN. Hush, my head is going round with the wonder is on me.

MARY. No wonder at all in that. Maybe it is dreaming we all are.

(_A grey-haired man and two girls come in._)

GREY-HAIRED MAN (_laying down a sack_). The blessing of God here! I heard Raftery was here in the wedding-house, and that he would let no one in without a present. There was nothing in the cart with us but a sack of potatoes, and there it is for you, ma'am.

MARY. Oh, it's too good you all are to me. Whether it's asleep or awake I am, I thank you kindly.

BLIND MAN. Don't forget the fiddler.

GREY-HAIRED MAN. Are you Raftery?

BLIND MAN.

Who will give Raftery a shilling?
Here is his platter: who is willing?
Who will give honour to the poet?
Here is his platter: show it, show it.

GREY-HAIRED FARMER. You're welcome; you're welcome! That is Raftery, anyhow! (_Puts money in the plate._)

BLIND MAN.

Come hither, girls, give what you can
To the poor old travelling man.

GREY-HAIRED MAN. Aurah Susan, aurah Oona, are you looking at who is before you, the greatest poet in Ireland? That is Raftery himself. It is often you heard talk of the girl that got a husband with the praises he gave her. If he gives you the same, maybe you'll get husbands with it.

FIRST GIRL. I often heard talk of Raftery.

THE OTHER GIRL. There was always a great name on Raftery. (_They put some money in the plate shyly._)

BLIND MAN.

Before you go, give what you can
To this young girl and this young man.

FIRST GIRL (_to_ MARY). Here's a couple of dozen of eggs, and welcome.

THE OTHER GIRL. O woman of the house! I have nothing with me here; but I have a good clucking hen at home, and I'll bring her to you to-morrow; our house is close by.

MARY. Indeed, that's good news to me; such nice neighbours to be at hand. (_Several men and women come into the house together, every one of them carrying something._)

SEVERAL (_together_). Welcome, Raftery!

BLIND MAN.

If ye have hearts are worth a mouse,
Welcome the bride into her house.

(_They laugh and greet_ MARY, _and put down gifts--a roll of butter, rolls of woollen thread, and many other things._)

OLD FARMER. Ha, ha! That's right. They are coming in now. Now, Raftery; isn't it generous and open-handed and liberal this country is? Isn't it better than the County Mayo?

BLIND MAN.

I'd say all Galway was rich land,
If I'd your shillings in my hand.

(_Holds out his plate to them._)

OLD FARMER (_laughing_). Now, neighbours, down with it! My conscience! Raftery knows how to get hold of the money.

A MAN OF THEM. _Maisead_, he doesn't own much riches; and there is pride on us all to see him in this country. (_Puts money in the plate, and all the others do the same. A lean old man comes in._)

MARTIN (_to_ MARY). That is John the Miser, or Seagan na Stucaire, as they call him. That is the man that is hardest in this country. He never gave a penny to any person since he was born.

MISER. God save all here! Oh, is that Raftery? Ho, ho! God save you, Raftery, and a hundred thousand welcomes before you to this country. There is pride on us all to see you. There is gladness on the whole country, you to be here in our midst. If you will believe me, neighbours, I saw with my own eyes the bush Raftery put his curse on; and as sure as I'm living, it was withered away. There is nothing of it but a couple of old twigs now.

BLIND MAN.

I've heard a voice like his before,
And liked some little voice the more;
I'd sooner have, if I'd my choice,
A big heart and a small voice.

MISER. Ho! ho! Raftery, making poems as usual. Well, there is great joy on us, indeed, to see you in our midst.

BLIND MAN. What is the present you have brought to the new-married woman?

MISER. What is the present I brought? O _maisead_! the times are too bad on a poor man. I brought a few fleeces of wool I had to the market to-day, and I couldn't sell it; I had to bring it home again. And calves I had there, I couldn't get any buyer for at all. There is misfortune on these times.

BLIND MAN. Every person that came in brought his own present with him. There is the new-married woman, and let you put down a good present.

MISER. O _maisead_, much good may it do her! (_He takes out of his pocket a small parcel of snuff; takes a_ _piece of paper from the floor, and pours into it, slowly and carefully, a little of the snuff, and puts it on the table._)

BLIND MAN.

Look at the gifts of every kind
Were given with a willing mind;
After all this, it's not enough
From the man of cows--a pinch of snuff!

OLD FARMER. _Maisead_, long life to you, Raftery; that your tongue may never lose its edge. That is a man of cows certainly; I myself am a man of sheep.

BLIND MAN. A bag of meal from the man of sheep.

FAIR YOUNG MAN. And I am a man of pigs.

BLIND MAN. A side of meat from the man of pigs.

MARTIN. Don't forget the woman of hens.

BLIND MAN.

A pound of tea from the woman of hens.
After all this, it's not enough
From the man of cows--a pinch of snuff!

ALL.

After all this, it's not enough
From the man of cows--a pinch of snuff!

OLD FARMER. The devil the like of such fun have we had this year!

MISER. Oh, indeed, I was only keeping a little grain for myself; but it's likely they may want it all. (_He takes the paper out, and lays it on the table._)

BLIND MAN. A bag of meal from the man of sheep.

ALL.

After all this, it's not enough
From the man of cows--a half-ounce of snuff!

(_One of the girls hands the snuff round; they laugh and sneeze, taking pinches of it._)

OLD FARMER. My soul to the devil, Seagan, do the thing decently. Give out one of those fleeces you have in the cart with you.

MISER. I never saw the like of you for fools since I was born. Is it mad you are?

ALL. From the man of cows, a half-ounce of snuff!

MISER. Oh, _maisead_, if there must be a present put down, take the fleece, and my share of misfortune on you! (_Three or four of the boys run out._)

OLD FARMER. Aurah, Seagan, what is your opinion of Raftery now? He has you destroyed worse than the bush! (_The boys come back, a fleece with them._)

BOY. Here is the fleece, and it's very heavy it is. (_They put it down, and there falls a little bag out of it that bursts and scatters the money here and there on the floor._)

MISER. Ub-ub-bu! That is my share of money scattered on me that I got for my calves. (_He stoops down to gather it together. All the people burst out laughing again._)

OLD FARMER. _Maisead_, Seagan, where did you get the money? You told us you didn't sell your share of calves.

BLIND MAN.

He that got good gold
For calves he never sold
Must put good money down
With a laugh, without a frown;
Or I'll destroy that man
With a bone-breaking rann.
I'll rhyme him by the book
To a blue-watery look.

MISER. Oh, Raftery, don't do that. I tasted enough of your ranns just now, and I don't want another taste of them. There's threepence for you. (_He puts three pennies in the plate._)

BLIND MAN.

I'll put a new name upon
This strong farmer, of Thrippeny John.
He'll be called, without a doubt,
Thrippeny John from this time out.
Put your sovereign on my plate,
Or that and worse will be your fate.

MISER. O, in the name of God, Raftery, stop your mouth and let me go! Here is the sovereign for you; and indeed it's not with my blessing I give it.

(BLIND MAN _plays on the fiddle. They all stand up and dance but_ SEAGAN NA STUCIARE, _who shakes his fist in_ BLIND MAN'S _face, and goes out._

_When they have danced for a minute or two_, BLIND MAN _stops fiddling and stands up._)

BLIND MAN. I was near forgetting: I am the only person here gave nothing to the woman of the house. (_Hands the plate of money to_ MARY.) Take that and my seven hundred blessings along with it, and that you may be as well as I wish you to the end of life and time. Count the money now, and see what the neighbours did for you.

MARY. That is too much indeed.

MARTIN. You have too much done for us already.

BLIND MAN. Count it, count it; while I go over and try can I hear what sort of blessings Seagan na Stucaire is leaving after him.

(_Neighbours all crowd round counting the money._ BLIND MAN _goes to the door, looks back with a sigh, and goes quietly out._)

OLD FARMER. Well, you have enough to set you up altogether, Martin. You'll be buying us all up within the next six months.

MARTIN. Indeed I don't think I'll be going digging potatoes for other men this year, but to be working for myself at home.

(_The sound of horse's steps are heard. A young man comes into the house._)

YOUNG MAN. What is going on here at all? All the cars in the country gathered at the door, and Seagan na Stucaire going swearing down the road.

OLD FARMER. Oh, this is the great wedding was made by Raftery.--Where is Raftery? Where is he gone?

MARTIN (_going to the door_). He's not here. I don't see him on the road. (_Turns to young farmer._) Did you meet a blind fiddler going out the door--the poet Raftery?

YOUNG MAN. The poet Raftery? I did not; but I stood by his grave at Killeenan three days ago.

MARY. His grave? Oh, Martin, it was a dead man was in it!

MARTIN. Whoever it was, it was a man sent by God was in it.

THE LOST SAINT

AN OLD MAN.

A TEACHER.

CONALL AND OTHER CHILDREN.

SCENE.--_A large room as it was in the old time. A long table in it. A troop of children, a share of them eating their dinner, another share of them sitting after eating. There is a teacher stooping over a book in the other part of the room._

A CHILD (_standing up_). Come out, Felim, till we see the new hound.

ANOTHER CHILD. We can't. The master told us not to go out till we would learn this poem, the poem he was teaching us to-day.

ANOTHER CHILD. He won't let anyone at all go out till he can say it.

ANOTHER CHILD. _Maisead_, disgust for ever on the same old poem; but there is no fear for myself--I'll get out, never fear; I'll remember it well enough. But I don't think you will get out, Conall. Oh, there is the master ready to begin.

TEACHER (_lifting up his head_). Now, children, have you finished your dinner?

CHILDREN. Not yet. (_A poor-looking, grey old man comes to the door._)

A CHILD. Oh, that is old Cormacin that grinds the meal for us, and minds the oven.

OLD MAN. The blessing of God here! Master, will you give me leave to gather up the scraps, and to bring them out with me?

MASTER. You may do that. (_To the children._) Come here now, till I see if you have that poem right, and I will let you go out when you have it said.

FEARALL. We are coming; but wait a minute till I ask old Cormacin what is he going to do with the leavings he has there.

OLD MAN. I am gathering them to give to the birds, avourneen.

TEACHER. We will do it now; come over here. (_The children stand together in a row._)

TEACHER. Now I will tell you who made the poem you are going to say to me: There was a holy, saintly man in Ireland some years ago. Aongus Ceile Dé was the name he had. There was no man in Ireland had greater humility than he. He did not like the people to be giving honour to him, or to be saying he was a great saint, or that he made fine poems. It was because of his humility he stole away one night, and put a disguise on himself; and he went like a poor man through the country, working for his own living without anyone knowing him. He is gone away out of knowledge now, without anyone at all knowing where he is. Maybe he is feeding pigs or grinding meal now like any other poor person.

A CHILD. Grinding meal like old Cormacin here.

TEACHER. Exactly. But before he went away, it is many fine sweet poems he made in the praise of God and the angels; and it was one of those I was teaching you to-day.

A CHILD. What is the name you said he had?

TEACHER. Aongus Ceile Dé, the servant of God. They gave him that name because he was so holy. Now, Felim, say the first two lines you; and Art will say the two next lines; and Aodh the two lines after that, and so on to the end.

FELIM.

Up in the kingdom of God, there are
Archangels for every single day.

ART.

And it is they certainly
That steer the entire week.

AODH.

The first day is holy;
Sunday belongs to God.

FERGUS.

Gabriel watches constantly
Every week over Monday.

CONALL.

Gabriel watches constantly--

TEACHER. That's not it, Conall; Fergus said that.

CONALL. It is to God Sunday belongs----

TEACHER. That's not it; that was said before. It is at Tuesday we are now. Who is it has Tuesday? (_The little boy does not answer._) Who is it has Tuesday? Don't be a fool, now.

CONALL (_putting the joint of his finger in his eye_). I don't know.

TEACHER. Oh, my shame you are! Look now; go in the place Fearall is, and he will go in your place. Now, Fearall.

FEARALL.

It is true that Tuesday is kept
By Michael in his full strength.

TEACHER. That's it. Now, Conall, say who has Monday.

CONALL. I can't.

TEACHER. Say the two lines before that and I will be satisfied. Who has Monday?

CONALL (_crying_). I don't know.

TEACHER. Oh, aren't you the little amadan! I will never put anything at all in your head. I will not let you go out till you know that poem. Now, boys, run out with you; and we will leave Conall Amadan here. (_The_ TEACHER _and all the other scholars go out._)

THE OLD MAN. Don't be crying, avourneen; I will teach the poem to you; I know it myself.

CONALL. Aurah, Cormacin, I cannot learn it. I am not clever or quick like the other boys. I can't put anything in my head (_bursts into crying again_). I have no memory for anything.

OLD MAN (_laying his hand on his head_). Take courage, astore. You will be a wise man yet, with the help of God. Come with me now, and help me to divide these scraps. (_The child gets up._) That's it now; dry your eyes and don't be discouraged.

CONALL (_wiping his eyes_). What are you making three shares of the scraps for?

THE OLD MAN. I am going to give the first share to the geese; I am putting all the cabbage on this dish for them; and when I go out, I will put a grain of meal on it, and it will feed them finely. I have scraps of meat here, and old broken bread, and I will give that to the hens; they will lay their eggs better when they will get food like that. These little crumbs are for the little birds that do be singing to me in the morning, and that awaken me with their share of music. I have oaten meal for them. (_Sweeps the floor, and gathers little crumbs of bread._) I have a great wish for the little birds. (_The old man looks up; he sees the little boy lying on a cushion, and he asleep. He stands a little while looking at him. Tears gather in his eyes; then he goes down on his knees._)

OLD MAN. O Lord, O God, take pity on this little soft child. Put wisdom in his head, cleanse his heart, scatter the mist from his mind, and let him learn his lesson like the other boys. O Lord, Thou wert Thyself young one time: take pity on youth. O Lord, Thou Thyself shed tears: dry the tears of this little lad. Listen, O Lord, to the prayer of Thy servant, and do not keep from him this little thing he is asking of Thee. O Lord, bitter are the tears of a child, sweeten them; deep are the thoughts of a child, quiet them; sharp is the grief of a child, take it from him; soft is the heart of a child, do not harden it.

(_While the old man is praying, the_ TEACHER _comes in. He makes a sign to the children outside; they come in and gather about him. The old man notices the children; he starts up, and shame burns on him._)

TEACHER. I heard your prayer, old man; but there is no good in it. I praise you greatly for it, but that child is half-witted. I prayed to God myself once or twice on his account, but there was no good in it.

THE OLD MAN. Perhaps God heard me. God is for the most part ready to hear. The time we ourselves are empty without anything, God listens to us; and He does not think on the thing we are without, but gives us our fill.

TEACHER. It is the truth you are speaking; but there is no good in praying this time. This boy is very ignorant. (_He and the old man go over to the child, who is still asleep, and signs of tears on his cheeks._) He must work hard, and very hard; and maybe with the dint of work, he will get a little learning some time. (_He puts his hand on the cheek of the little boy, and he starts up, and wonder on him when he sees them all about him._)

THE OLD MAN. Ask it to him now.

TEACHER. DO you remember the poem now, Conall?

CONALL.

Up in the heaven of God, there are
Archangels for every day.

And it is they certainly
That steer the entire week.

The first day is holy;
Sunday belongs to God.

Gabriel watches constantly
Every week over Monday.

It is true that Tuesday is kept
By Michael in his full strength.

Rafael, honest and kind and gentle,
It is to him Wednesday belongs.

To Sachiel, that is without crookedness,
Thursday belongs every week.

Haniel, the Archangel of God,
It is he has Friday.

Bright Cassiel, of the blue eyes,
It is he directs Saturday.

TEACHER. That is a great wonder, not a word failed on him. But tell me, Conall astore, how did you learn that poem since?

CONALL. When I was sleeping, just now, there came an old man to me, and I thought there was every colour that is in the rainbow upon him. And he took hold of my shirt, and he tore it; and then he opened my breast, and he put the poem within in my heart.

OLD MAN. It is God that sent that dream to you. I have no doubt you will not be hard to teach from this out.

CONALL. And the man that came to me, I thought it was old Cormacin that was in it.

FEARALL. Maybe it was Aongus Ceile Dé himself that was in it.

AODH. Maybe Cormacin is Aongus.

TEACHER. Are you Aongus Ceile Dé? I desire you in the name of God to tell me.

THE OLD MAN (_bowing his head_). Oh, you have found it out now! Oh, I thought no one at all would ever know me. My grief that you have found me out!

TEACHER (_going on his knees_). O holy Aongus, forgive me; give me your blessing. O holy man, give your blessing to these children. (_The children fall on their knees round him._)

THE OLD MAN (_stretching out his hand_). The blessing of God on you. The blessing of Christ and His Holy Mother on you. My own blessing on you.

THE NATIVITY

TWO WOMEN.

SHEPHERDS.

KINGS.

CHILD ANGELS.

THE HOLY FAMILY.

SCENE.--_A stable. The door shut on it. The dawn of day is rising, and the colours of morning coming. Two women come in--a woman of them from the east, and a woman from the west, and they tired from the journey. There is a branch of a cherry tree in the hand of one of them, and a flock of flax in the hand of the other of them._

THE FIRST WOMAN. God be with you!

THE SECOND WOMAN. God be with yourself!

FIRST WOMAN. Where are you going?

SECOND WOMAN. In search of a woman I am.

FIRST WOMAN. And myself as well as you.

SECOND WOMAN. That is strange. What woman is that?

FIRST WOMAN. A woman that is about to give birth to a child; and I think it would be well for her, another woman to be giving care to her.