Biddy. Oh, Larken! that’s Kelly: ‘tis all one—she was a Kelly before she was married, and in this country we stick to the maiden’s name throughout.
Mr. H. The same in our country—often.
Biddy. Indeed! and her daughter’s name is Mabel, after the Kellys; for you might have noticed, if it ever happened your honour to hear it, an ould song of Mabel Kelly—Planxty Kelly. Then the present Mabel is as sweet a cratur as ever the ould Mabel Kelly was—but I must mind the pratees. (She goes to lift a pot off the fire.)
Mr. H. Hold! my gude girl, let me do that for you; mine is a strong haund.
Biddy. I thank your honour,—it’s too much trouble entirely for a jantleman like you; but it’s always the best jantleman has the laste pride.—Then them Kellys is a good race, ould and young, and I love ‘em, root and branch. Besides Mabel the daughter, there’s Owen the son, and as good a son he is—no better! He got an edication in the beginning, till the troubles came across his family, and the boy, the child, for it’s bare fifteen he is this minute, give up all his hopes and prospects, the cratur! to come home and slave for his mother.
Mr. H. Ah, that’s weel—that’s weel! I luve the lad that makes a gude son.—And is the father deed?
Biddy. Ay, dead and deceased he is, long since, and was buried just upon that time that ould Sir Cormac, father of the young heiress that is now at the castle above, the former landlord that was over us, died, see!—Then there was new times and new takes, and the widow was turned out of the inn, and these Gallaghers got it, and all wint wrong and to rack; for Mrs. Gallagher, that was, drank herself into her grave unknownst, for it was by herself in private she took it; and Christy Gallagher, the present man, is doing the same, only publicly, and running through all, and the house is tumbling over our ears: but he hopes to get the new inn; and if he does, why, he’ll be lucky—and that’s all I know, for the dinner is done now, and I’m going in with it—and won’t your honour walk up to the room now?
Mr. H. (going to the ladder) Up here?
Biddy. Oh, it’s not up at all, your honour, sure! but down here—through this ways.
Mr. H. One word more, my gude lassy. As soon as we shall have all dined, and you shall have ta’en your ane dinner, I shall beg of you, if you be not then too much tired, to show me the way to that bush of Bannow, whereat this Widow Larken’s cottage is.