DAN.
Let her walk round the like of Peggy Cavanagh below, and be begging money at the cross-road, or selling songs to the men. (To Nora.) Walk out now, Nora Burke, and it’s soon you’ll be getting old with that life, I’m telling you; it’s soon your teeth’ll be falling and your head’ll be the like of a bush where sheep do be leaping a gap.
(He pauses: she looks round at Micheal.)
MICHEAL.
(Timidly.) There’s a fine Union below in Rathdrum.
DAN.
The like of her would never go there.... It’s lonesome roads she’ll be going and hiding herself away till the end will come, and they find her stretched like a dead sheep with the frost on her, or the big spiders, maybe, and they putting their webs on her, in the butt of a ditch.
NORA.
(Angrily.) What way will yourself be that day, Daniel Burke? What way will you be that day and you lying down a long while in your grave? For it’s bad you are living, and it’s bad you’ll be when you’re dead. (She looks at him a moment fiercely, then half turns away and speaks plaintively again.) Yet, if it is itself, Daniel Burke, who can help it at all, and let you be getting up into your bed, and not be taking your death with the wind blowing on you, and the rain with it, and you half in your skin.
DAN.
It’s proud and happy you’ld be if I was getting my death the day I was shut of yourself. (Pointing to the door.) Let you walk out through that door, I’m telling you, and let you not be passing this way if it’s hungry you are, or wanting a bed.
TRAMP.
(Pointing to Micheal.) Maybe himself would take her.
NORA.
What would he do with me now?
TRAMP.
Give you the half of a dry bed, and good food in your mouth.
DAN.
Is it a fool you think him, stranger, or is it a fool you were born yourself? Let her walk out of that door, and let you go along with her, stranger—if it’s raining itself—for it’s too much talk you have surely.