Young McB. It seems ‘tis not so asy any way, now-a-days, to make a gentlewoman, Mrs. Rooney.
Catty. (springing forward angrily) And is it me you mane, young man?
Randal. Oh! mother, dear, don’t be aggravating.
Mr. Carv. Clerk, why don’t you maintain silence?
Catty. (pressing before her son) Stand back, then, Randal Rooney—don’t you hear silence?—don’t be brawling before his honour. Go back wid yourself to your pillar, or post, and fould your arms, and stand like a fool that’s in love, as you are.—I beg your honour’s pardon, but he’s my son, and I can’t help it.—But about our examinations, plase your honour, we’re all come to swear—here’s myself, and little Charley of Killaspugbrone, and big Briny of Cloon, and Ulick of Eliogarty—all ready to swear.
Mr. Carv. But have these gentlemen no tongues of their own, madam?
Catty. No, plase your honour, little Charley has no English tongue; he has none but the native Irish.
Mr. Carv. Clerk, make out their examinations, with a translation; and interpret for Killaspugbrone.
Catty. Plase your honour, I being the lady, expicted I’d get lave to swear first.
Mr. Carv. And what would you swear, madam, if you got leave, pray?—be careful, now.