Where There is Nothing / Being Volume I of Plays for an Irish Theatre

by W. B. Yeats

Colonel Lawley. Keep your hands off me, you drunken scoundrel!

[Strikes at Charlie Ward, but Tinkers seize his arms behind.

Paul Ruttledge. Tie all their hands behind them.

Mr. Dowler. We'd better give in, there's no saying how many more of them there are.

Mr. Algie. I'll be quiet, the odds are too great against us.

Mr. Green. The police will soon be here; we may as well stay quietly.

Paddy Cockfight. Here, give it to me, I'll put a good twist in it. Don't be afraid, sir, it's not about your neck I'm putting it——. There now, sit quiet and easy, and you won't feel it at all.

Paul Ruttledge. Are all their hands tied? Now then, heave them up on to the barrels.

[Slight scuffle, during which all are put on the barrels in a semicircle.

Paul Ruttledge. Ah! yes, you are on my barrels now; last time I saw you, you were on your own dunghill. Let me see, is there anyone here who can write?