Sarah (sobbing). It’s two years we are getting the gold, your reverence, and now you won’t marry us for that bit, and we hard-working poor people do be making cans in the dark night, and blinding our eyes with the black smoke from the bits of twigs we do be burning.

An old woman is heard singing tipsily on the left.

Priest (looking at the can Michael is making). When will you have that can done, Michael Byrne?

Michael. In a short space only, your reverence, for I’m putting the last dab of solder on the rim.

Priest. Let you get a crown along with the ten shillings and the gallon can, Sarah Casey, and I will wed you so.

Mary (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):

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):

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.