(Rubs his heart.)
Sergeant: (Patting him on the shoulder.) You will get your reward in heaven.
Man: I know that, I know that, sergeant, but life is precious.
Sergeant: Well, you can sing if it gives you more courage.
Man: (Sings)—
Her head was bare, her hands and feet with iron bands were bound,
Her pensive strain and plaintive wail mingles with the evening gale,
And the song she sang with mournful air, I am old Granuaile.
Her lips so sweet that monarchs kissed....
Sergeant: That’s not it.... “Her gown she wore was stained with gore.” ... That’s it—you missed that.
Man: You’re right, sergeant, so it is; I missed it. (Repeats line.) But to think of a man like you knowing a song like that.
Sergeant: There’s many a thing a man might know and might not have any wish for.
Man: Now, I daresay, sergeant, in your youth, you used to be sitting up on a wall, the way you are sitting up on this barrel now, and the other lads beside you, and you singing “Granuaile”?...