Another Child. We can't. The master told us not to go out till we would learn this poem, the poem he was teaching us to-day.
Another Child. He won't let anyone at all go out till he can say it.
Another Child. Maisead, disgust for ever on the same old poem; but there is no fear for myself—I'll get out, never fear; I'll remember it well enough. But I don't think you will get out, Conall. Oh, there is the master ready to begin.
Teacher (lifting up his head). Now, children, have you finished your dinner?
Children. Not yet. (A poor-looking, grey old man comes to the door.)
A Child. Oh, that is old Cormacin that grinds the meal for us, and minds the oven.
Old Man. The blessing of God here! Master, will you give me leave to gather up the scraps, and to bring them out with me?
Master. You may do that. (To the children.) Come here now, till I see if you have that poem right, and I will let you go out when you have it said.
Fearall. We are coming; but wait a minute till I ask old Cormacin what is he going to do with the leavings he has there.
Old Man. I am gathering them to give to the birds, avourneen.