MAURTEEN BRUIN. SHAWN BRUIN. FATHER HART. BRIDGET BRUIN. MAIRE BRUIN. A FAERY CHILD.
The scene is laid in the Barony of Kilmacowen in the county of Sligo, and the time is the end of Eighteenth Century. The characters are supposed to speak in Gaelic.
THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE
The kitchen of MAURTEEN BRAIN'S house. Anopen grate with a turf fire is at the leftside of the room, with a table in front ofit. There is a door leading to the openair at the back, and another door a littleto its left, leading into an inner room.There is a window, a settle, and a largedresser on the right side of the room, anda great bowl of primroses on the sill of thewindow. MAURTEEN BRUIN, FATHER HART;and BRIDGET BRUIN are sitting at the table.SHAWN BRUIN is setting the table for supper.MAIRE BRUIN sits on the settle readinga yellow manuscript.
BRIDGET BRUIN.
Because I bade her go and feed the calves, She took that old book down out of the thatch And has been doubled over it all day. We would be deafened by her groans and moans Had she to work as some do, Father Hart, Get up at dawn like me, and mend and scour; Or ride abroad in the boisterous night like you, The pyx and blessed bread under your arm.
SHAWN BRUIN.
You are too cross.
BRIDGET BRUIN.
The young side with the young.
MAURTEEN BRUIN.
She quarrels with my wife a bit at times, And is too deep just now in the old book; But do not blame her greatly; she will grow As quiet as a puff-ball in a tree When but the moons of marriage dawn and die For half a score of times.
FATHER HART
Their hearts are wild As be the hearts of birds, till children come.
BRIDGET BRUIN.
She would not mind the griddle, milk the cow, Or even lay the knives and spread the cloth.
FATHER HART.
I never saw her read a book before: What may it be?
MAURTEEN BRUIN.
I do not rightly know: It has been in the thatch for fifty years. My father told me my grandfather wrote it, Killed a red heifer and bound it with the hide. But draw your chair this way—supper is spread; And little good he got out of the book, Because it filled his house with roaming bards, And roaming ballad-makers and the like, And wasted all his goods.—Here is the wine; <