Do not be cross; she is a right good girl! The butter is by your elbow, Father Hart. My colleen, have not Fate and Time and Change Done well for me and for old Bridget there? We have a hundred acres of good land, And sit beside each other at the fire, The wise priest of our parish to our right, And you and our dear son to left of us. To sit beside the board and drink good wine And watch the turf smoke coiling from the fire And feel content and wisdom in your heart, This is the best of life; when we are young We long to tread a way none trod before, But find the excellent old way through love And through the care of children to the hour For bidding Fate and Time and Change good-bye. [_A knock at the door. MAIRE BRUIN opens it and then takes a sod of turf out of the hearth in the tongs and passes it through the door and closes the door and remains standing by it._ MAIRE BRUIN. A little queer old man in a green coat, Who asked a burning sod to light his pipe. BRIDGET BRUIN. You have now given milk and fire, and brought, For all you know, evil upon the house. Before you married you were idle and fine, And went about with ribbons on your head; And now you are a good-for-nothing wife. SHAWN BRUIN. Be quiet, mother! MAURTEEN BRUIN. You are much too cross! MAIRE BRUIN. What do I care if I have given this house, Where I must hear all day a bitter tongue, Into the power of faeries! BRIDGET BRUIN. You know well How calling the good people by that name Or talking of them over-much at all May bring all kinds of evil on the house. MAIRE BRUIN. Come, faeries, take me out of this dull house! Let me have all the freedom I have lost; Work when I will and idle when I will! Faeries, come, take me out of this dull world, For I would ride with you upon the wind, Run on the top of the dishevelled tide, And dance upon the mountains like a flame! FATHER HART. You cannot know the meaning of your words. MAIRE BRUIN. Father, I am right weary of four tongues: A tongue that is too crafty and too wise, A tongue that is too godly and too grave, A tongue that is more bitter than the tide, And a kind tongue too full of drowsy love, Of drowsy love and my captivity. [_SHAWN BRUIN comes over to her and leads her to the settle._ SHAWN BRUIN. Do not blame me; I often lie awake Thinking that all things trouble your bright head— How beautiful it is—such broad pale brows Under a cloudy blossoming of hair! Sit down beside me here—these are too old, And have forgotten they were ever young. MAIRE BRUIN. O, you are the great door-post of this house, And I, the red nasturtium, climbing up. [_She takes SHAWN’S hand, but looks shyly at the priest and lets it go._ FATHER HART.