Old McB. Is it to lave me, Honor? Is it that you thought would plase me, Honor?—To lave your father alone in his ould age, after all the slaving he got and was willing to undergo, whilst ever he had strength, early and late, to make a little portion for you, Honor,—you, that I reckoned upon for the prop and pride of my ould age—and you expect you’d plase me by laving me.
Honor. Hear me just if, pray then, father.
Old McB. (shaking her off as she tries to caress him) Go, then; go where you will, and demane yourself going into sarvice, rather than stay with me—go.
Honor. No, I’ll not go. I’ll stay then with you, father dear,—say that will plase you.
Old McB. (going on without listening to her) And all for the love of this Randal Rooney! Ay, you may well put your two hands before your face; if you’d any touch of natural affection at all, that young man would have been the last of all others you’d ever have thought of loving or liking any way.
Honor. Oh! if I could help it!
Old McB. There it is. This is the way the poor fathers is always to be trated. They to give all, daughter and all, and get nothing at all, not their choice even of the man, the villain that’s to rob ‘em of all—without thanks even; and of all the plinty of bachelors there are in the parish for the girl that has money, that daughter will go and pick and choose out the very man the father mislikes beyond all others, and then it’s “Oh! if I could help it!”—Asy talking!
Honor. But, dear father, wasn’t it more than talk, what I did?—Oh, won’t you listen to me?
Old McB I’ll not hear ye; for if you’d a grain o spirit in your mane composition, Honor, you would take your father’s part, and not be putting yourself under Catty’s feet—the bad-tongued woman, that hates you, Honor, like poison.
Honor. If she does hate me, it’s all through love of her own—