There was a Spaniard wrecked at Ocris Head, When I was young, and I have still some bottles. He cannot bear to hear her blamed; the book Has lain up in the thatch these fifty years; My father told me my grandfather wrote it, And killed a heifer for the binding of it-- But supper's spread, and we can talk and eat It was little good he got out of the book, Because it filled his house with rambling fiddlers, And rambling ballad-makers and the like. The griddle-bread is there in front of you. Colleen, what is the wonder in that book, That you must leave the bread to cool? Had I Or had my father read or written books There were no stocking stuffed with yellow guineas To come when I am dead to Shawn and you. FATHER HART You should not fill your head with foolish dreams. What are you reading? MARY How a Princess Edane, A daughter of a King of Ireland, heard A voice singing on a May Eve like this, And followed half awake and half asleep, Until she came into the Land of Faery, Where nobody gets old and godly and grave, Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue. And she is still there, busied with a dance Deep in the dewy shadow of a wood, Or where stars walk upon a mountain-top. MAURTEEN Persuade the colleen to put down the book; My grandfather would mutter just such things, And he was no judge of a dog or a horse, And any idle boy could blarney him; Just speak your mind. FATHER HART Put it away, my colleen; God spreads the heavens above us like great wings And gives a little round of deeds and days, And then come the wrecked angels and set snares, And bait them with light hopes and heavy dreams, Until the heart is puffed with pride and goes Half shuddering and half joyous from God's peace; And it was some wrecked angel, blind with tears, Who flattered Edane's heart with merry words. My colleen, I have seen some other girls Restless and ill at ease, but years went by And they grew like their neighbours and were glad In minding children, working at the churn, And gossiping of weddings and of wakes; For life moves out of a red flare of dreams Into a common light of common hours, Until old age bring the red flare again. MAURTEEN That's true--but she's too young to know it's true. BRIDGET She's old enough to know that it is wrong To mope and idle. MAURTEEN I've little blame for her; She's dull when my big son is in the fields, And that and maybe this good woman's tongue Have driven her to hide among her dreams Like children from the dark under the bed-clothes. BRIDGET She'd never do a turn if I were silent. MAURTEEN