Short Plays

epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Suddenly shouting behind, tipsily. Larry was a fine lad, I’m saying; Larry was a fine lad, Sarah Casey⁠— Michael Whisht, now, the two of you. There’s my mother coming, and she’d have us destroyed if she heard the like of that talk the time she’s been drinking her fill. Mary

Comes in singing:

And when we asked him what way he’d die,
And he hanging unrepented,
“Begob,” says Larry, “that’s all in my eye,
By the clergy first invented.”

Sarah Give me the jug now, or you’ll have it spilt in the ditch. Mary Holding the jug with both her hands, in a stilted voice. Let you leave me easy, Sarah Casey. I won’t spill it, I’m saying. God help you; are you thinking it’s frothing full to the brim it is at this hour of the night, and I after carrying it in my two hands a long step from Jemmy Neill’s? Michael Anxiously. Is there a sup left at all? Sarah Looking into the jug. A little small sup only I’m thinking. Mary Sees the Priest, and holds out jug towards him. God save your reverence. I’m after bringing down a smart drop; and let you drink it up now, for it’s a middling drouthy man you are at all times, God forgive you, and this night is cruel dry. She tries to go towards him. Sarah holds her back. Priest Waving her away. Let you not be falling to the flames. Keep off, I’m saying. Mary Persuasively. Let you not be shy of us, your reverence. Aren’t we all sinners, God help us! Drink a sup now, I’m telling you; and we won’t let on a word about it till the Judgment Day. She takes up a tin mug, pours some porter into it, and gives it to him. Mary

Singing, and holding the jug in her hand.

A lonesome ditch in Ballygan
The day you’re beating a tenpenny can;
A lonesome bank in Ballyduff
The time⁠ ⁠…

She breaks off. It’s a bad, wicked song, Sarah Casey; and let you put me down now in the ditch, and I won’t sing it till himself will be gone; for it’s bad enough he is, I’m thinking, without ourselves making him worse. Sarah Putting her down, to the Priest, half laughing. Don’t mind her at all, your reverence. She’s no shame the time she’s a drop taken; and if it was the Holy Father from Rome was in it, she’d give him a little sup out of her mug, and say the same as she’d say to yourself. Mary To the Priest. Let you drink it up, holy father. Let you drink it up, I’m saying, and not be letting on you wouldn’t do the like of it, and you with a stack of pint bottles above, reaching the sky. Priest With resignation. Well, here’s to your good health, and God forgive us all. He drinks. Mary That’s right now, your reverence, and the blessing of God be on you. Isn’t it a grand thing to see you sitting down, with no pride in you, and drinking a sup with the like of us, and we the poorest, wretched, starving creatures you’d see any place on the earth? Priest If it’s starving you are itself, I’m thinking it’s well for the like of you that do be drinking when there’s drouth on you, and lying down to sleep when your legs are stiff. He sighs gloomily. What would you do if it was the like of myself you were, saying Mass with your mouth dry, and running east and west for a sick call maybe, and hearing the rural people again and they saying their sins? Mary With compassion. It’s destroyed you must be hearing the sins of the rural people on a fine spring. Priest With despondency. It’s a hard life, I’m telling you, a hard life, Mary Byrne; and there’s the bishop coming in the morning, and he an old man, would have you destroyed if he seen a thing at all. Mary With great sympathy. It’d break my heart to hear you talking and sighing the like of that, your reverence. She pats him on the knee. Let you rouse up, now, if it’s a poor, single man you are itself, and I’ll be singing you songs unto the dawn of day. Priest Interrupting her. What is it I want with your songs when it’d be better for the like of you, that’ll soon die, to be down on your two knees saying prayers to the Almighty God? Mary If it’s prayers I want, you’d have a right to say one yourself, holy father; for we don’t have them at all, and I’ve heard tell a power of times it’s that you’re for. Say one now, your reverence, for I’ve heard a power of queer things and I walking the world, but there’s one thing I never heard any time, and that’s a real priest saying a prayer. Priest The Lord protect us! Mary It’s no lie, holy father. I often heard the rural people making a queer noise and they going to rest; but who’d mind the like of them? And I’m thinking it should be great game to hear a scholar, the like of you, speaking Latin to the Saints above. Priest Scandalized. Stop your talking, Mary Byrne; you’re an old flagrant heathen, and I’ll stay no more with the lot of you. He rises. Mary Catching hold of him. Stop till you say a prayer, your reverence; stop till you say a little prayer, I’m telling you, and I’ll give you my blessing and the last sup from the jug. Priest Breaking away. Leave me go, Mary Byrne; for I have never met your like for hard abominations the score and two years I’m living in the place. Mary Innocently. Is that the truth? Priest It is, then, and God have mercy on your soul. The Priest goes towards the left, and Sarah follows him. Sarah In a low