Sheelah Come now, Eily, couldn’t ye cheer up his riverince wid the tail of a song?
Eily Hardress bid me not sing any ould Irish songs, he says the words are vulgar.
Sheelah Father Tom will give ye absolution.
Father T Put your lips to that jug; there’s only the strippens left. Drink! and while that thrue Irish liquor warms your heart, take this wid it. May the brogue of ould Ireland niver forsake your tongue—may her music niver lave yer voice—and may a true Irishwoman’s virtue niver die in your heart!
Myles Come, Eily, it’s my liquor—haven’t ye a word to say for it?
Song, Eily—“Cruiskeen Lawn.”
Let the farmer praise his grounds,
As the huntsman doth his hounds,
And the shepherd his fresh and dewy morn;