Anne My good friend, since you can’t catch your love, d’ye think you could catch my horse? [Distant thunder.
Myles Is it a black mare wid a white stockin on the fore off leg?
Anne I dismounted to unhook a gate—a peal of thunder frightened her, and she broke away.
Myles She’s at Torc Cregan stables by this time—it was an admiration to watch her stride across the Phil Dolan’s bit of plough.
Anne And how am I to get home?
Myles If I had four legs, I wouldn’t ax betther than to carry ye, and a proud baste I’d be. [Thunder—rain.
Anne The storm is coming down to the mountain—is there no shelter near?
Myles There may be a corner in this ould chapel. [Rain.] Here comes the rain—murdher! ye’ll be wet through.
[Music—pulls off coat.] Put this round yez.
Anne What will you do? You’ll catch your death of cold.
Myles [Taking out bottle.] Cowld is it? Here’s a wardrobe of top coats. [Thunder.] Whoo! this is a fine time for the water—this way, ma’am.