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youth be merry and old age be wise.

      CATHLEEN.

      Tympan and harp awaken wandering dreams.

      A VOICE [without].

      You may not see the Countess.

      ANOTHER VOICE.

      I must see her.

      [Sound of a short struggle. A SERVANT enters from door to R.

      SERVANT.

      The gardener is resolved to speak with you.

      I cannot stay him.

      CATHLEEN.

      You may come, Maurteen.

      [The GARDENER, an old man, comes in from the R., and the SERVANT goes out.

      GARDENER.

      Forgive my working clothes and the dirt on me.

      I bring ill words, your ladyship—too bad

      To send with any other.

      CATHLEEN.

      These bad times,

      Can any news be bad or any good?

      GARDENER.

      A crowd of ugly lean-faced rogues last night—

      And may God curse them!—climbed the garden wall.

      There is scarce an apple now on twenty trees,

      And my asparagus and strawberry beds

      Are trampled into clauber, and the boughs

      Of peach and plum-trees broken and torn down

      For some last fruit that hung there. My dog, too,

      My old blind Simon, him who had no tail,

      They murdered—God’s red anger seize them!

      CATHLEEN.

      I know how pears and all the tribe of apples

      Are daily in your love—how this ill chance

      Is sudden doomsday fallen on your year;

      So do not say no matter. I but say

      I blame the famished season, and not you.

      Then be not troubled.

      GARDENER.

      I thank your ladyship.

      CATHLEEN.

      What rumours and what portents of the famine?

      GARDENER.

      The yellow vapour, in whose folds it came,

      That creeps along the hedges at nightfall,

      Rots all the heart out of my cabbages.

      I pray against it.

      [He goes towards the door, then pauses.

      If her ladyship

      Would give me an old crossbow, I would watch

      Behind a bush and guard the pears of nights

      And make a hole in somebody I know of.

      CATHLEEN.

      They will give you a long draught of ale below.

      [The GARDENER goes out.

      OONA.

      What did he say?—he stood on my deaf side.

      CATHLEEN.

      His apples are all stolen. Pruning time,

      And the slow ripening of his pears and apples,

      For him is a long, heart-moving history.

      OONA.

      Now lay your head once more upon my knees.

      I will sing how Fergus drove his brazen cars.

      [She chaunts with the thin voice of age.

      Who will go drive with Fergus now,

      And pierce the deep woods’ woven shade,

      And dance upon the level shore?

      Young man, lift up your russet brow,

      And lift your tender eyelids, maid,

      And brood on hopes and fears no more.

      You have dropped down again into your trouble.

      You do not hear me.

      CATHLEEN.

      Ah, sing on, old Oona,

      I hear the horn of Fergus in my heart.

      OONA.

      I do not know the meaning of the song.

      I am too old.

      CATHLEEN.

      The horn is calling, calling.

      OONA.

      And no more turn aside and brood

      Upon Love’s bitter mystery;

      For Fergus rules the brazen cars,

      And rules the shadows of the wood,

      And the white breast of the dim sea

      And all dishevelled wandering stars.

      THE SERVANT’S VOICE [without].

      The Countess Cathleen must not be disturbed.

      ANOTHER VOICE.

      Man, I must see her.

      CATHLEEN.

      Who now wants me, Paudeen?

      SERVANT [from the door].

      A herdsman and his history.

      CATHLEEN.

      He may come.

      [The HERDSMAN enters from the door to R.

      HERDSMAN.

      Forgive this dusty gear: I have come far.

      My sheep were taken from the fold last night.

      You will be angry: I am not to blame.

      But blame these robbing times.

      CATHLEEN.

      No blame’s with you.

      I blame the famine.

      HERDSMAN.

      Kneeling, I give thanks.

      When gazing on your face, the poorest, Lady,

      Forget their poverty, the rich their care.

      CATHLEEN.

      What rumours and what portents of the famine?

      HERDSMAN.

      As I came down the lane by Tubber-vanach

      A boy and man sat cross-legged on two stones,

      With moving hands and faces famine-thin,

      Gabbling to crowds of men and wives and boys

      Of how two merchants at a house in the woods

      Buy souls for hell, giving so great a price

      That men may live through all the dearth in plenty.

      The vales are famine-crazy—I am right glad

      My home is on the mountain near to God.

      [He turns to go.

      CATHLEEN.

      They will give you ale and meat before you go.

      You must have risen

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