The Well of the Saints: A Comedy in Three Acts

by J. M. Synge

MARY DOUL.
There’s the sound of one of them twittering yellow birds do be coming in the spring-time from beyond the sea, and there’ll be a fine warmth now in the sun, and a sweetness in the air, the way it’ll be a grand thing to be sitting here quiet and easy smelling the things growing up, and budding from the earth.

MARTIN DOUL.
I’m smelling the furze a while back sprouting on the hill, and if you’d hold your tongue you’d hear the lambs of Grianan, though it’s near drowned their crying is with the full river making noises in the glen.

MARY DOUL.
listens. — The lambs is bleating, surely, and there’s cocks and laying hens making a fine stir a mile off on the face of the hill. (She starts.)

MARTIN DOUL.
What’s that is sounding in the west?

[A faint sound of a bell is heard.]

MARY DOUL.
It’s not the churches, for the wind’s blowing from the sea.

MARTIN DOUL.
with dismay. — It’s the old Saint, I’m thinking, ringing his bell.

MARY DOUL.
The Lord protect us from the saints of God! (They listen.) He’s coming this road, surely.

MARTIN DOUL.
tentatively. — Will we be running off, Mary Doul?

MARY DOUL.
What place would we run?