MICHAEL
In a short space only, your reverence, for I’m putting the last dab of solder on the rim.
PRIEST
Let you get a crown along with the ten shillings and the gallon can, Sarah Casey, and I will wed you so.
MARY
suddenly shouting behind, tipsily.—Larry was a fine lad, I’m saying; Larry was a fine lad, Sarah Casey—
MICHAEL
Whist, now, the two of you. There’s my mother coming, and she’d have us destroyed if she heard the like of that talk the time she’s been drinking her fill.
MARY
comes in singing
And when we asked him what way he’d die,
And he hanging unrepented,
“Begob,” says Larry, “that’s all in my eye,
By the clergy first invented.”
SARAH
Give me the jug now, or you’ll have it spilt in the ditch.
MARY
holding the jug with both her hands, in a stilted voice.—Let you leave me easy, Sarah Casey. I won’t spill it, I’m saying. God help you; are you thinking it’s frothing full to the brim it is at this hour of the night, and I after carrying it in my two hands a long step from Jemmy Neill’s?
MICHAEL
anxiously.—Is there a sup left at all?
SARAH
looking into the jug.—A little small sup only I’m thinking.
MARY
sees the priest, and holds out jug towards him.—God save your reverence. I’m after bringing down a smart drop; and let you drink it up now, for it’s a middling drouthy man you are at all times, God forgive you, and this night is cruel dry.