The Tinkers Wedding | Page 6

not be crying, Sarah Casey. It's a queer woman
you are to be crying at the like of that, and you your whole life walking
the roads. 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
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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,
tip- sily. -- Larry was a fine lad, I'm saying; Larry was a fine lad,
Sarah Casey -- MICHAEL. Whist, 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?
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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
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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 say- ing, 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
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you do if it was the like of myself you were, saying Mass with your
mouth dry, and run- ning east and west for a sick call maybe, and
hearing the rural people again and they saying