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?