On account of one woman only the Greeks departed, and they never stopped, and they never greatly stayed, till they destroyed Troy; and on account of one woman only this village shall be damned; go deo, ma neoir, and to the womb of judgment, by God of the graces, eternally and everlastingly, because they did not understand that Oona ni Regaun is the second Helen, who was born in their midst, and that she overcame in beauty Deirdre and Venus, and all that came before or that will come after her!

    But she will come with me, my pearl of a woman,
    To the province of Connacht of the fine people;
    She will receive feasts, wine, and meat,
    High dances, sport, and music!

Oh, wisha, wisha! that the sun may never rise upon this village; and that the stars may never shine on it and that——. (He is by this time outside the door.  All the men make a rush at the door and shut it. OONA runs towards the door, but the women seize her. SHEAMUS goes over to her.)

OONA.  Oh! oh! oh! do not put him out; let him back; that is Tumaus Hanrahan—­he is a poet—­he is a bard—­he is a wonderful man.  O, let him back; do not do that to him!

SHEAMUS.  O Oona ban, acushla dilis, let him be; he is gone now, and his share of spells with him!  He will be gone out of your head to-morrow; and you will be gone out of his head.  Don’t you know that I like you better than a hundred thousand Deirdres, and that you are my one pearl of a woman in the world?

HANRAHAN (outside, beating on the door).  Open, open, open; let me in!  Oh, my seven hundred thousand curses on you—­the curse of the weak and of the strong—­the curse of the poets and of the bards upon you!  The curse of the priests on you and the friars!  The curse of the bishops upon you, and the Pope!  The curse of the widows on you, and the children!  Open! (He beats on the door again and again.)

SHEAMUS.  I am thankful to ye, neighbours; and Oona will be thankful to ye to-morrow.  Beat away, you vagabond!  Do your dancing out there with yourself now!  Isn’t it a fine thing for a man to be listening to the storm outside, and himself quiet and easy beside the fire?  Beat away, beat away!  Where’s Connacht now?

THE MARRIAGE

MARTIN, a young man.

MARY. His newly married wife.

A BLIND FIDDLER.

NEIGHBOURS.

SCENE.—­A cottage kitchen.  A table poorly set out, with two cups, a jug of milk, and a cake of bread. MARTIN and MARY sitting down to it.

MARTIN.  This is a poor wedding dinner I have for you, Mary; and a poor house I brought you to.  I wish it was seven thousand times better for your sake.

MARY.  Only we have to part again, there wouldn’t be in the world a pair happier than myself and yourself; but where’s the good of fretting when there’s no help for it?