Hard Hush! what fiend prompts you to thrust that act of folly in my face?
Danny Thrue for ye, masther! I’m a dirty mane scut to remind ye of it.
Hard What will my haughty, noble mother say, when she learns the truth! how can I ask her to receive Eily as a daughter?—Eily, with her awkward manners, her Kerry brogue, her ignorance of the usages of society. Oh, what have I done?
Danny Oh! vo—vo, has the ould family come to this! Is it the daughter of Mihil-na-Thradrucha, the old rope-maker of Garryowen, that ’ud take the flure as your wife?
Hard Be silent, scoundrel! How dare you speak thus of my love!—wretch that I am to blame her!—poor, beautiful, angel-hearted Eily.
Danny Beautiful is it! Och—wurra—wurra, deelish! The looking-glass was never made that could do her justice; and if St. Patrick wanted a wife, where would he find an angel that ’ud compare with the Colleen Bawn. As I row her on the lake, the little fishes come up to look at her; and the wind from heaven lifts up her hair to see what the divil brings her down here at all—at all.
Hard The fault is mine—mine alone—I alone will suffer!
Danny Why isn’t it mine? Why can’t I suffer for yez, masther dear? Wouldn’t I swally every tear in your body, every bit of bad luck in your life, and then wid a stone round my neck, sink myself and your sorrows in the bottom of the lower lake.
Hard [Placing hand on Danny.] Good Danny, away with you to the boat—be ready in a few moments; we will cross to Muckross Head. [Looks at light at back.