SARAH
It’s a fine can, your reverence. for if it’s poor simple people we are, it’s fine cans we can make, and himself, God help him, is a great man surely at the trade.
[Priest opens the bundle; the three empty bottles fall out.
SARAH
Glory to the saints of joy!
PRIEST
Did ever any man see the like of that? To think you’d be putting deceit on me, and telling lies to me, and I going to marry you for a little sum wouldn’t marry a child.
SARAH
crestfallen and astonished.—It’s the divil did it, your reverence, and I wouldn’t tell you a lie. (Raising her hands.) May the Lord Almighty strike me dead if the divil isn’t after hooshing the tin can from the bag.
PRIEST
vehemently.—Go along now, and don’t be swearing your lies. Go along now, and let you not be thinking I’m big fool enough to believe the like of that, when it’s after selling it you are or making a swap for drink of it, maybe, in the darkness of the night.
MARY
in a peacemaking voice, putting her hand on the Priest’s left arm.—She wouldn’t do the like of that, your reverence, when she hasn’t a decent standing drouth on her at all; and she’s setting great store on her marriage the way you’d have a right to be taking her easy, and not minding the can. What differ would an empty can make with a fine, rich, hardy man the like of you?
SARAH
imploringly.—Marry us, your reverence, for the ten shillings in gold, and we’ll make you a grand can in the evening—a can would be fit to carry water for the holy man of God. Marry us now and I’ll be saying fine prayers for you, morning and night, if it’d be raining itself, and it’d be in two black pools I’d be setting my knees.
PRIEST
loudly.—It’s a wicked, thieving, lying, scheming lot you are, the pack of you. Let you walk off now and take every stinking rag you have there from the ditch.
MARY
putting her shawl over her head.—Marry her, your reverence, for the love of God, for there’ll be queer doings below if you send her off the like of that and she swearing crazy on the road.