Mary. His newly married wife.
A Blind Fiddler.
Neighbours.
Scene.—A cottage kitchen. A table poorly set out, with two cups, a jug of milk, and a cake of bread. Martin and Mary sitting down to it.
Martin. This is a poor wedding dinner I have for you, Mary; and a poor house I brought you to. I wish it was seven thousand times better for your sake.
Mary. Only we have to part again, there wouldn't be in the world a pair happier than myself and yourself; but where's the good of fretting when there's no help for it?
Martin. If I had but a couple of pounds, I could buy a little ass and earn a share of money bringing turf to the big town; or I could job at the fairs. But, my grief, we haven't it, or ten shillings.
Mary. And if I could get but a few hens, and what would feed them, I could be selling the eggs or rearing chickens. But unless God would work a miracle for us, there's no chance of that itself. (She wipes her eyes with her apron.)
Martin. Don't be crying, Mary. You belong to me now; am I not rich so long as you belong to me? Whatever place I will go to I will know you are thinking of me.
Mary. That is a true word you say, Martin; I will never be poor so long as I know you to be thinking of me. No riches at all would be so good as that. There's a line my poor father used to be saying:—