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