_(Conan's voice heard. Singing: "Let me be merry" in a melancholy voice.)_

"If sadly thinking with spirits sinking Could more than drinking my cares compose, A cure for to-morrow from sighs I'd borrow, And hope to-morrow would end my woes.

But as in wailing there's nought availing, And Death unfailing will strike the blow, Then for that reason and for a season, Let us be merry before we go!"

_Mother_: It is Conan will near lose his wits with joy when he knows what is come back to me!

_Conan: (Peeping in.)_ Is Celia gone?

_Flannery_: She is, Conan.

_Conan_: It's a queer thing with women. If you'll turn them from one road it's likely they'll go into another that is worse again.

_Rock_: That is so indeed. There is Celia's mother that is running telling lies, and leaving a heavy word upon a neighbour.

_Mother_: I'll give my promise not to tell it out in Court if he will give to poor Michael Flannery what is due to him, and that is the whole of what he has in his bag!

_Conan: (Laughing scornfully.)_ Sure _she_ has no memory at all. It fails her to remember that two and two makes four.

_Mother_: You think that? Well, listen now to me. Two and two is it? No, nine times two that is eighteen and nine times three twenty-seven, nine times four thirty-six, nine times five forty-five, nine times six fifty-four, nine times seven sixty-three, nine times eight seventy-two, nine times nine eighty-one.... Yes, and eleven times, and any times that you will put before me!

_Conan_: That's enough, that's enough!

_Mother_: Ha, ha! You giving out that I can keep no knowledge in mind and no learning, when I should sit on the chapel roof to have enough of slates for all I can cast up of sums! Multiplication, Addition, subtraction, and the rule of three!

_Conan_: Whist your tongue!

_Mother_: Is it the verses of Raftery's talk into the Bush you would wish me to give out, or the three hundred and sixty-nine verses of the Contention of the Bards--_(Repeats verse of "The Talk with the Bush" in Irish.)_

"Cead agus mile roiamh am na h-Airce Tus agus crothugadh m'aois agus mo dhata Tha me o shoin im' shuidhe san ait so Agus is iomdha sgeal a bhfeadain tracht air."

Or I'll English it if that will please you:

"A hundred years and a thousand before the time of the Ark Was the beginning and creation of my age and my date; I am from that time sitting in this place, And it's many a story I am able to give news of."

_Conan: (Putting hands to ears and walking away.)_ I am thinking your mind got unsettled with the weight of years.

_Mother: (Following him.)_ No, but your own that got scattered from the time you ran barefoot carrying worms in a tin can for that Professor of a Collegian that went fishing in the stream, and that you followed after till you got to think yourself a lamp of light for the universe!

_Conan_: Will you stop deafening the whole world with your babble!

_Mother_: There was always a bad drop in you that attached to you out of the grandfather. What did your languages do for you but to sharpen your tongue, till the sc.r.a.pe of it would take the skin off, the same as a cat! My blessing on you, Conan, but my curse upon your mouth!

_Conan_: Oh, will you stop your chat!

_Mother_: Every word you speak having in it the sting of a bee that was made out of the curses of a saint!

_Conan_: Stop your gibberish!

_Mother_: Are you satisfied now?

_Conan_: I'm not satisfied!

_Mother_: And never will be, for you were ever and always a fault-finder and full of crossness from the day that you were small suited.

_Conan_: You remember that, too?

_Mother_: I do well!

_Conan_: Where is the bellows? Was it you _(to Flannery)_ that blew a blast on her?

_Flannery_: It was not.

_Conan_: Or you?

_Rock_: It's long sorry I'd be to do such a thing!

_Conan_: It is certain someone did it on her.

Where now is it?

_Mother: (Seizing him.)_ And I remember the day you threw out your mug of milk into the street, by reason, says you, you didn't like the colour of the cow that gave it!

_Conan_: Will you stop ripping up little annoyances, till I'll find the bellows!

_Rock_: It's what I'm thinking, her memory will soon be back at the far side of Solomon's Temple.

_Mother: (Repeats in Irish.)_ Agus is iomdha sgeal a bhfeadain traacht air!

_Conan: (Shouting.)_ Is it that you'll drive the seven senses out of me!

_Mother_: Is it that you begrudge me my recollection?

Ha! I have it in spite of you. _(Sings.)_

"Oft in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain hath bound me Fond memory brings the light Of other days around me.

The smiles, the tears, of childhood's years, The words of love then spoken-- The eyes that shone, now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken.

"Thus in the stilly night--ere slumber's chain hath bound me Fond memory brings the light Of other days around me!"

_Celia: (Bursting in.)_ Where is Conan?

_Conan_: What do you want of me?

_Celia_: I have got the hair brush.

_Conan_: Let you not come near me!

_Celia_: And the comb!