_Mary Cushin:_ (_Who has sunk on to the step before the door, rocking herself and keening._) Oh, Denis, my heart is broken you to have died with the hard word upon you! My grief you to be alone now that spent so many nights in company!

What way will I be going back through Gort and through Kilbecanty? The people will not be coming out keening you, they will say no prayer for the rest of your soul!

What way will I be the Sunday and I going up the hill to the Ma.s.s?

Every woman with her own comrade, and Mary Cushin to be walking her lone!

What way will I be the Monday and the neighbours turning their heads from the house? The turf Denis cut lying on the bog, and no well-wisher to bring it to the hearth!

What way will I be in the night time, and none but the dog calling after you? Two women to be mixing a cake, and not a man in the house to break it!

What way will I sow the field, and no man to drive the furrow? The sheaf to be scattered before springtime that was brought together at the harvest!

I would not begrudge you, Denis, and you leaving praises after you.

The neighbours keening along with me would be better to me than an estate.

But my grief your name to be blackened in the time of the blackening of the rushes! Your name never to rise up again in the growing time of the year! (_She ceases keening and turns towards the old woman._) But tell me, Mary, do you think would they give us the body of Denis? I would lay him out with myself only; I would hire some man to dig the grave.

(_The Gatekeeper opens the gate and hands out some clothes._)

_Gatekeeper:_ There now is all he brought in with him; the flannels and the shirt and the shoes. It is little they are worth altogether; those mountainy boys do be poor.

_Mary Cushin:_ They had a right to give him time to ready himself the day they brought him to the magistrates. He to be wearing his Sunday coat, they would see he was a decent boy. Tell me where will they bury him, the way I can follow after him through the street? There is no other one to show respect to him but Mary Cahel, his mother, and myself.

_Gatekeeper:_ That is not to be done. He is buried since yesterday in the field that is belonging to the gaol.

_Mary Cushin:_ It is a great hardship that to have been done, and not one of his own there to follow after him at all.

_Gatekeeper:_ Those that break the law must be made an example of. Why would they be laid out like a well behaved man? A long rope and a short burying, that is the order for a man that is hanged.

_Mary Cushin:_ A man that was hanged! O Denis, was it they that made an end of you and not the great G.o.d at all? His curse and my own curse upon them that did not let you die on the pillow! The curse of G.o.d be fulfilled that was on them before they were born! My curse upon them that brought harm on you, and on Terry Fury that fired the shot!

_Mary Cahel:_ (_Standing up._) And the other boys, did they hang them along with him, Terry Fury and Pat Ruane that were brought from Daire-caol?

_Gatekeeper:_ They did not, but set them free twelve hours ago. It is likely you may have pa.s.sed them in the night time.

_Mary Cushin:_ Set free is it, and Denis made an end of? What justice is there in the world at all?

_Gatekeeper:_ He was taken near the house. They knew his footmark.

There was no witness given against the rest worth while.

_Mary Cahel:_ Then the sergeant was lying and the people were lying when they said Denis Cahel had informed in the gaol?

_Gatekeeper:_ I have no time to be stopping here talking. The judge got no evidence and the law set them free.

(_He goes in and shuts gate after him._)

_Mary Cahel:_ (_Holding out her hands._) Are there any people in the streets at all till I call on them to come hither? Did they ever hear in Galway such a thing to be done, a man to die for his neighbour?

Tell it out in the streets for the people to hear, Denis Cahel from Slieve Echtge is dead. It was Denis Cahel from Daire-caol that died in the place of his neighbour!

It is he was young and comely and strong, the best reaper and the best hurler. It was not a little thing for him to die, and he protecting his neighbour!

Gather up, Mary Cushin, the clothes for your child; they'll be wanted by this one and that one. The boys crossing the sea in the springtime will be craving a thread for a memory.

One word to the judge and Denis was free, they offered him all sorts of riches. They brought him drink in the gaol, and gold, to swear away the life of his neighbour!

Pat Ruane was no good friend to him at all, but a foolish, wild companion; it was Terry Fury knocked a gap in the wall and sent in the calves to our meadow.

Denis would not speak, he shut his mouth, he would never be an informer. It is no lie he would have said at all giving witness against Terry Fury.

I will go through Gort and Kilbecanty and Druimdarod and Daroda; I will call to the people and the singers at the fairs to make a great praise for Denis!

The child he left in the house that is shook, it is great will be his boast in his father! All Ireland will have a welcome before him, and all the people in Boston.

I to stoop on a stick through half a hundred years, I will never be tired with praising! Come hither, Mary Cushin, till we'll shout it through the roads, Denis Cahel died for his neighbour!

(_She goes off to the left, Mary Cushin following her._)

_Curtain_

MUSIC FOR THE SONGS IN THE PLAYS

[Ill.u.s.tration: Music sheet for THE RED-HAIRED MAN'S WIFE

THE RED-HAIRED MAN'S WIFE

_Spreading the News._

I thought, my first love, there'd be but one house between you and me, And I thought I would find yourself coaxing my child on your knee.

Over the tide I would leap with the leap of a swan, Till I came to the side of the wife of the red-haired man.]

[Ill.u.s.tration: Music sheet for GRANUAILE

GRANUAILE

_The Rising of the Moon._

As through the hills I walked to view the bills and sham-rock plain, I stood a while where nature smiles to view the rocks and streams.

On a ma-tron fair I fixed my eyes beneath a fer-tile vale, As she sang her song-it was on the wrong of poor old Gran-u-aile.

Her head was bare, her hands and feet with iron bands were bound, Her pensive strain and plaintive wail mingles with the evening gale, And the song she sang with mournful air, I am old Granuaile, Her lips so sweet that monarchs kissed--]