The Other: Well, you must think of something appropriate in English, then.
Boûgus (keening): Oh, whirra, whirra, Ochone, Ochone. (They all burst into tears.)
Eamon (as one pronouncing a curse): If the sun could have darkened to hide her shame, and the waters of the great ocean given themselves to wash away her faithlessness, it’s a strange, black, arid world we’d be living in this day. O’Connell, Parnell, Redmond, she’s broken the heart in all of them; and now it’s mine she’s broken, too; and it’s not Cosgrave and James that she’ll spare in the days to come.—I will go out with the Men of Gunn....
Scene III.
—A hovel by the sea among the Balmy Stones of Claptrapatrick, near Ballyidiocee. Enter Seamus as usual.
Seamus: Where’s himself?
Sean: Musha avick, how many more times will I be telling you in this play that he’s asleep, God help him, the holy man, and maybe dreaming, if he’s able, of the grand goings on there’ll be when they’re after making him Pope and King of all the world, and he a scraggy, thin, weakly man would put you in mind of an old hen, or maybe a worn-out jackass to be taken from the shafts and turned away among the roots and grasses to die.
Peadar: Sure, I’m thinking that’s not what he’d be dreaming at all, but the great joy of making combats and running here and there in high spirits, with the Men of Gunn around him.
Eamon (mournfully): The heart’s broke in me, Seamus Smitha, for it’s all put aside and finished now, and there’s no more doings I can contrive; and there’s nothing left but to go back, the way we came, among the Bohunks and Dagoes, and die in a little dirty state in the hind end of America.
The Widow Markiewicz (scornfully): And isn’t there land called England over across a dirty bit of water would hardly wet your boots to cross it; where do be fine houses, and gold ornaments, and a stupid uncomplaining people to govern, and a crazy Parliament over it all is calling for ever on the Mother of God to send an alternative Government?