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 (scandalised). 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 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.