Charlie Ward. Stop your chat, ye petticoated preacher.
Paul Ruttledge. I think, Father Jerome, you had better be getting home. This people never gave in to the preaching of S. Patrick.
Paddy Cockfight. I'll send you riding home with your face to the tail of the ass!
Tommy the Song. No, stop till we show you that we can make as good curses as yourself. That you may never be warm in winter or cold in summer time——
Charlie Ward. That's the chat! Bravo! Let him have it.
Tinkers. Be off! be off out of this!
Molly the Scold. Now curse him, Tommy.
Tommy the Song. A wide hoarseness on you—a high hanging to you on a windy day; that shivering fever may stretch you nine times, and that the curses of the poor may be your best music, and you hiding behind the door. [Jerome goes out.
Molly the Scold. And you hiding behind the door, and squeezed between the hinges and the wall.
Other Tinkers. Squeezed between the hinges and the wall. [They follow Jerome.