Bartley Fallon: There might. Look at Matt Finn, the coffin-maker, put his hand on a cage the circus brought, and the lion took and tore it till they stuck him with a fork you'd rise dung with, and at that he let it drop. And that was a man had never quitted Cloon.
Shawn Early: I thought you might be sending something to the fair.
Bartley Fallon: It isn't to the train I would be trusting anything I would have to sell, where it might be thrown off the track. And where would be the use sending the couple of little lambs I have? It is likely there is no one would ask me where was I going. When the weight is not in them, they won't carry the price. Sure, the grass I have is no good, but seven times worse than the road.
Shawn Early: They are saying there'll be good demand at the fair of Carrow to-morrow.
Hyacinth Halvey: To-morrow the fair day of Carrow? I was not remembering that.
Bartley Fallon: Ah, there won't be many in it, I'm thinking. There isn't a hungrier village in Connacht, they were telling me, and it's poor the look of it as well.
Hyacinth Halvey: To-morrow the fair day. There will be all sorts in the streets to-night.
Bartley Fallon: The sort that will be in it will be a bad sort—sievemakers and tramps and neuks.
Hyacinth Halvey: The tents on the fair green; there will be music in it; there was a fiddler having no legs would set men of threescore years and of fourscore years dancing. I can nearly hear his tune.
(He whistles "The Heather Broom.")