Martin. You have too much done for us already.
Blind Man. Count it, count it; while I go over and try can I hear what sort of blessings Seagan na Stucaire is leaving after him.
(Neighbours all crowd round counting the money. Blind Man goes to the door, looks back with a sigh, and goes quietly out.)
Old Farmer. Well, you have enough to set you up altogether, Martin. You'll be buying us all up within the next six months.
Martin. Indeed I don't think I'll be going digging potatoes for other men this year, but to be working for myself at home.
(The sound of horse's steps are heard. A young man comes into the house.)
Young Man. What is going on here at all? All the cars in the country gathered at the door, and Seagan na Stucaire going swearing down the road.
Old Farmer. Oh, this is the great wedding was made by Raftery.—Where is Raftery? Where is he gone?
Martin (going to the door). He's not here. I don't see him on the road. (Turns to young farmer.) Did you meet a blind fiddler going out the door—the poet Raftery?
Young Man. The poet Raftery? I did not; but I stood by his grave at Killeenan three days ago.