OLD WOMAN. I have travelled far, very far; there are few have travelled so far as myself, and there's many a one that doesn't make me welcome. There was one that had strong sons I thought were friends of mine, but they were shearing their sheep, and they wouldn't listen to me. PETER. It's a pity indeed for any person to have no place of their own. OLD WOMAN. That's true for you indeed, and it's long I'm on the roads since I first went wandering. BRIDGET. It is a wonder you are not worn out with so much wandering. OLD WOMAN. Sometimes my feet are tired and my hands are quiet, but there is no quiet in my heart. When the people see me quiet, they think old age has come on me and that all the stir has gone out of me. But when the trouble is on me I must be talking to my friends. BRIDGET. What was it put you wandering? OLD WOMAN. Too many strangers in the house. BRIDGET. Indeed you look as if you'd had your share of trouble. OLD WOMAN. I have had trouble indeed. BRIDGET. What was it put the trouble on you? OLD WOMAN. My land that was taken from me. PETER. Was it much land they took from you? OLD WOMAN. My four beautiful green fields. PETER [_aside to_ BRIDGET]. Do you think could she be the widow Casey that was put out of her holding at Kilglass awhile ago? BRIDGET. She is not. I saw the widow Casey one time at the market in Ballina, a stout fresh woman. PETER [_to_ OLD WOMAN]. Did you hear a noise of cheering, and you coming up the hill? OLD WOMAN. I thought I heard the noise I used to hear when my friends came to visit me. [_She begins singing half to herself._] I will go cry with the woman, For yellow-haired Donough is dead, With a hempen rope for a neckcloth, And a white cloth on his head,-- MICHAEL [_coming from the door_]. What is that you are singing, ma'am? OLD WOMAN. Singing I am about a man I knew one time, yellow-haired Donough, that was hanged in Galway. [_She goes on singing, much louder._] I am come to cry with you, woman, My hair is unwound and unbound; I remember him ploughing his field, Turning up the red side of the ground, And building his barn on the hill With the good mortared stone; O! we'd have pulled down the gallows Had it happened in Enniscrone! MICHAEL. What was it brought him to his death? OLD WOMAN. He died for love of me: many a man has died for love of me. PETER [_aside to_ BRIDGET]. Her trouble has put her wits astray. MICHAEL. Is it long since that song was made? Is it long since he got his death? OLD WOMAN. Not long, not long. But there were others that died for love of me a long time ago. MICHAEL. Were they neighbours of your own, ma'am?