All language subtitles for The.Playboy.of.the.Western.World.1962.1080p.BluRay.H264.AAC-RARBG.en

Six yards of stuff for
to make a yellow gown.

A pair of lace boots with
lengthy heels on them

and brassy eyes.

A hat is suited for a wedding-day.

A fine tooth comb.

To be sent with three barrels
of porter in Jimmy Farrell's

creel cart on the evening
of the coming fair

to Mister Michael James Flaherty.

With the best compliments of this season,

Margaret Flaherty.

Where's your father?

He's over the crossroads, he is,

meeting Philly Cullen and a couple more

are going along with him
to Kate Cassidy's wake.

And he's going that
length in the dark night?

He is surely, and leaving
me lonesome on the scruff

of the hill.

Isn't it long the nights
are now, Shawn Keogh,

to be leaving a poor
girl with her own self

counting the hours to the dawn of day?

If it is, when we're
wedded in a short while

you'll have no call to complain,

for I've little will to be walking off

to wakes or weddings in
the darkness of the night.

You're making mighty certain, Shaneen,

that I'll wed you now.

Aren't we after making a good bargain,

the way we're only waiting these days

on Father Reilly's
dispensation from the bishops,

or the Court of Rome.

It's a wonder, Shaneen,
the Holy Father'd

be taking notice of the likes of you,

for if I was him I wouldn't
bother with this place.

For you see, none but red
linen at this point in his eye

are patchy and as laden as he.

For if we allow these types to
go troublin' the Holy Father

on his sacred seat.

If we are, we're as good
this place as another,

maybe, and as good these
times as we were forever.

As good, is it?

Where now will you meet
the like of Daneen Sullivan

knocked the eye from a
peeler, or Marcus Quin,

God rest him, got six
months for maiming ewes,

and he a warrant to tell
stories of holy Ireland

till he'd have the old
women shedding down tears

about their feet.

Where now would you find the
like of them, I'm saying?

If you don't it's a good job, maybe,

for Father Reilly has small
conceit to have that kind

walking around and talking to the girls.

Stop tormenting me with Father Reilly

when I'm asking only what
way I'll pass these 12 hours

of dark, and not take
my death with the fear.

Would I fetch you the widow Quin, maybe?

Is it the like of that murderer?

You'll not, surely.

Then I'm thinking your
father will stop along with you

when he sees you taking on,

for it'll be a long night-time
with great darkness,

and I'm after feeling
a kind of fellow above

in the furzy ditch, groaning
wicked like a maddening dog,

the way it's good cause you
have, maybe, to be fearing now.

What's that?

Is it a man you seen?

I couldn't see him at all,

but I heard him groaning
out, and breaking his heart.

It should have been a young
man from his words speaking.

And you never went near
him to see was he hurted

or what ailed him at all?

I did not, Pegeen Mike.

It was a dark, lonesome place
to be hearing the like of him.

Well, you're a daring fellow,

and if they find his
corpse stretched above

in the dews of dawn, what'||
you say then to the peelers,

or the Justice of the Peace?

I wasn't thinking of that.

For the love of God, don't
let on I was speaking of him.

Don't tell your father and
the men is coming above,

for if they heard that
story, they'd have great

blabbing this night at the wake.

I'll maybe tell them,
and I'll maybe not.

The blessing of God on this place.

God bless you kindly.

Sit down now, and take your rest.

And how is it you are, Shawn Keogh?

Are you coming over the
sands to Kate Cassidy's wake?

I am not, Michael James.

I'm going home the short cut to my bed.

He's right too, and have
you no shame, Michael James,

to be quitting off the whole night

and leaving myself lonesome in the shop?

Isn't it the same if
I go for the whole night

or a part only?

And I'm thinking as the
queer darker you are,

if you'll have me crossin' back

to the stooks of the dead
women with the draught taken?

If I am a queer of dark,
then it's the queer father

would leave me alone in
these 12 hours of dark.

And I piling the turf
with the dogs barking,

and the calves mooing,

and my own teeth rattling with the fear.

What is there to hurt
you, and you a fine,

hardy girl would knock the head
of any two men in the place?

Isn't there the harvest
boys with their tongues red

for drink, and the ten tinkers
is camped beyond in the glen,

and the thousand militia,
bad cess to them,

walking idle through the land.

There's lads surely to hurt me,

and I won't stop alone in it.

If you're that afeard let
Shawn Keogh stop along with you.

It's the will of God, I'm thinking,

himself should be seeing to you now.

I would and welcome, Michael James,

but I'm afeard of Father Reilly.

God help you!

Can't you sit in by the
hearth with the light lit

and herself beyond in the room?

You'll do that surely.

Lock him in the west room.

He'll stay then and have no sin
to be telling to the priest.

Go on up now.

Don't stop me, Michael James.

Let me out of the door, I'm saying,

for the love of the Almighty God.

Let me out of it, and
may God grant you His

indulgence in the hour of need.

Stop your noising, and
sit down by the hearth.

Oh, Father Reilly and the saints of God,

where will I hide myself today?

Oh, St. Joseph and St.
Patrick and St. Brigid,

and St. James, have mercy on me now!

You'd be going, is it?

Let me go, Michael James,
let me go, you old Pagan,

let me go, or I'll get the
curse of the priests on you,

and of the scarlet-coated
bishops of the courts of Rome.

Well, there's the
coat of a Christian man.

Oh, there's sainted glory
this day in the lonesome west,

and by the will of God, Pegeen,
I've got you a decent man,

and one that'|| have no
call to be spying after

if you've a score of young girls, maybe,

weeding in your fields.

What right have you to be making game

of a poor fellow for minding the priest,

when it's your own the fault is,

not paying a penny pot-boy
to stand along with me

and give me courage in
the doing of my work?

Michael James!

What ails you?

The queer dying fellow's
beyond looking over the ditch.

He's come up, I'm thinking,
stealing your hens.

God help me, he's following me now,

and if he's heard what I
said, he'll be having my life.

God save all here!

God save you kindly.

I'd trouble you for a glass
of porter, woman of the house.

You're one of the tinkers, young fellow,

is camped beyond in the glen?

I am not, but I'm destroyed walking.

Let you come up then to the fire.

You're looking famished with the cold.

God reward you.

Is it often the police do
be coming into this place,

master of the house?

If you'd come in better hours,

you'd have seen "Licenced for
the sale of Beer and Spirits",

"to be consumed on the premises,"

written in white letters above the door.

And what would the
police want spying on me,

and not a decent house within four miles,

saving one widow alone?

It's a safe house, so.

Is it yourself fearing the police?

You're wanting, maybe?

There's many wanting.

Aye, many surely,

with the broken harvest
and the ended wars.

It should be larceny, I'm thinking?

I had it in my mind it was a
different world and a bigger.

There's a queer lad.

Were you never slapped
in school, young fellow,

that you don't know the name of your deed?

I'm slow at learning,
a middling scholar only.

If you're a dunce itself,

you'd have a right to know that larceny is

robbing and stealing.

Is it for the like of that you're wanting?

And I the son of a strong
farmer, God rest his soul,

could have bought the whole

of your old house a while since,

from the butt of his tailpocket,

and not have missed the weight of it gone.

If it's not stealing,
it's maybe something big.

Aye, it's maybe something big.

He's a wicked-looking young fellow.

Maybe he followed after a young
woman on a lonesome night.

The saints forbid, mister,
I was all times a decent lad.

You're a silly man, Jimmy Farrell.

You heard him say his father
was a farmer a while since,

and there's himself now in a poor state.

Maybe the land was grabbed from him,

and he did what any decent man would do.

Was it bailiffs?

The devil a one.

"Agents?"

The devil a one.

Landlords?

Ah, not at all, I'm saying.

You'd see the like of them
stories on any little paper

of a Munster town.

But I'm not calling to
mind any person, gentle,

simple, judge or jury, did the like of me.

Did you strike golden
guineas out of solder,

young fellow, or shilling coins itself?

I did not, mister, not
sixpence nor a farthing coin.

Did you marry three wives maybe?

I'm told there's a
sprinkling have done that.

I never married with one,

let alone with a couple or three.

I never left my own parish
till Tuesday was a week.

He's done nothing, so.

If you didn't commit murder
or a bad, nasty thing,

or false coining, or robbery, or butchery,

or the like of them,

there isn't anything that would be worth

your troubling for to run from now.

You did nothing at all.

That's an unkindly thing to be saying

to a poor orphaned traveller,
has a prison behind him,

and hanging before, and
hell's gap gaping below.

You're only saying it.

You've done nothing at all.

A soft lad the like of you
wouldn't slit the windpipe

of a screeching sow.

You're not speaking the truth.

Not speaking the truth, is it?

Would you have me knock the head of you

- with the butt of the broom?
- Don't strike me.

I killed my poor father,
Tuesday was a week,

for doing the like of that.

Is it killed your father?

With the help of God I did surely,

and may the Holy Immaculate
Mother intercede for his soul.

There's a daring fellow.

Oh, glory be to God!

That was a hanging crime, mister honey.

You should have had good reason
for doing the like of that.

He was a dirty man, God forgive him,

and he getting old and crusty,

the way I couldn't put up with him at all.

And you shot him dead?

I never used weapons.

I've no licence, and
I'm a law-fearing man.

It was with a hilted knife maybe?

I'm told, in the big world
it's bloody knives they use.

Do you take me for a slaughter-boy?

You never hanged him.

I did not then.

I just riz the loy and
let fall the edge of it

on the ridge of his skull,

and he went down at my
feet like an empty sack,

and never let a grunt or
groan from him at all.

And what way weren't you hanged, mister?

Did you bury him then?

Aye, I buried him then.

Wasn't like digging spuds in the field.

And the peelers never followed after you

the 11 days you're out?

Never a one of them,
and I walking forward

facing hog, dog, or devil
on the highway of the road.

It's only with a common week-day class

of a murderer them lads would
be trusting their carcass,

and that man should be a great terror

when his temper's roused.

And where was it, mister
honey, that you did the deed?

Oh, a distant place,
master of the house,

a windy corner of high, distant hills.

He's a close man,
and he's right, surely.

That'd be a lad with
the sense of Solomon

to have for a pot-boy, Michael James,

if it's the truth you're
seeking one at all.

Bravery's a treasure
in a lonesome place,

and a lad would kill his
father, I'm thinking,

would face a foxy devil with a pitchpike

on the flags of hell.

If I'd that lad in the house,

I wouldn't be fearing the
loosed kharki cut-throats,

or the walking dead.

Well, glory be to God!

Would you think well to
stop here and be pot-boy,

mister honey, if we gave you good wages,

and didn't destroy you
with the weight of work?

That'd be a queer kind
to go bringing into a

quiet decent household with
the like of Pegeen Mike.

Will you whisht?

Who's speaking to you?

- A bloody-handed murderer.
- Will you whisht I'm saying.

Take no fooling from your like at all.

And you, young fellow,
you'd have a right to stop,

I'm thinking, for we'd
do our all and utmost

to content your needs.

And I'd be safe in this
place from the searching law?

You would, surely.

Let you stop a short while anyhow.

Aren't you destroyed
walking with your feet

in bleeding blisters,

and your whole skin needing
washing like a Wicklow sheep.

If it's not humbugging me you are,

I'm thinking that I'll surely stay.

Now, by the grace of God,
herself will be safe this night,

with a man killed his father
holding danger from the door,

and let you come on, Michael James,

or they'll have the best
stuff drunk at the wake.

And begging your pardon, mister,

what name will we call
you, for we'd like to know?

Christopher Mahon.

Well, God bless you, Christy,

and a good rest till we meet again

when the sun'|| be rising
to the noon of day.

God bless you all.

God bless you.

Are you wanting me to
stop along with you and keep

you from harm?

Didn't you say you were
fearing Father Reilly?

There'd be no harm in
stopping now, I'm thinking,

and himself in it too.

You wouldn't stay when
there was need of you,

so let you step off nimble
this time when there's none.

Didn't I say it was Father Reilly-

- Well go on, then, to Father Reilly,

and let him put you in
the holy brotherhoods,

and leave that lad to me.

- If I see the Widow Quin-
- Will you go on, I'm saying.

And stop waking this
place with your noise.

That lad would wear the spirits
from the saints of peace.

Let you stretch out now
by the fire, young fellow.

You should be destroyed travelling.

I'm tired, surely, walking wild 11 days,

and waking fearful in the night.

You should have had great
people in your family,

I'm thinking, with the
little, small feet you have,

and you with a kind of a quality name,

the like of what you'd
find on the great powers

and potentates of France and Spain.

We were great surely,
with wide and windy acres of

rich Munster land.

Wasn't I telling you, and you a fine,

handsome young fellow with a noble brow?

Is it me?

Aye.

Did you never hear that from
the young girls where you come

from in the west or south?

I did not then.

Oh, they're bloody liars
in the naked parish

where I grew a man.

If they are itself,
you've heard it these days,

I'm thinking, and you walking the world

telling out your story
to young girls or old.

I've told my story no place
till this night, Pegeen Mike,

and it's foolish I was here, maybe,
to be talking free

but you're decent people

I'm thinking, and yourself a kindly woman,

the way I wasn't fearing you at all.

You've said the like of that, maybe,

in every cot or cabin where you've met

a young girl on your way.

I've said it nowhere till
this night, I'm telling you,

for I've seen none the like
of you the 11 long days

I am walking the world,
looking over a low ditch or a

high ditch on my north or my south,

into stony scattered fields,

where you'd see young, limber girls,

and fine prancing women
making laughter with the men.

If you weren't destroyed travelling,

you'd have as much talk

as Owen Roe O'Sullivan or
the poets of the Dingle Bay,

and I've heard all times
it's the poets are your like,

fine fiery fellows with great rages

when their temper's roused.

You've a power of rings, God bless you,

and would there be any of fence

if I was asking are you single now?

What would I want wedding so young?

We're alike, so.

I never killed my father.

I'd be afeard to do that,

except I was the like of
yourself with blind rages

tearing me within,

for I'm thinking you should have had great

tussling when the end was come.

We had nothing, it was a hard
woman was come over the hill

and if he was always a crusty
kind, we need a hard woman

setting him on, like the devil himself

or his forefathers could
put up with him at all.

And isn't it a great wonder
that one wasn't fearing you?

Up to the day I killed my
father, there wasn't a person

in Ireland knew the kind I was,

and I there drinking,
waking, eating, sleeping,

a quiet, simple poor fellow
with no man giving me heed.

It was the girls were
giving you heed maybe,

and I'm thinking it's most

conceit you'd have to be
gaming with their like.

Not the girls itself,
and I won't tell you a lie.

There wasn't anyone heeding
me in that place saving

only the dumb beasts of the field.

And I thinking you
should have been living

the like of a king of
Norway or the Eastern world.

The like of a king, is it?

And I after toiling, moiling, digging,

dodging from the dawn till
dusk with never a sight

of joy or sport saving
only when I'd be abroad

in the dark night
poaching rabbits on hills,

for I was a devil to
poach, God forgive me,

and I near got six months
for going with a dung fork

and stabbing a fish.

And it's that you'd call sport, is it,

to be abroad in the darkness
with yourself alone?

I did, God help me,

and then I'd be as happy as the sunshine

of St. Martin's Day,

watching the light passing the north

or the patches of fog,

till I'd hear a rabbit starting to screech

and I'd go running in the furs.

Then when I'd my full
share I'd go walking down

where you'd see the ducks
and geese stretched sleeping

on the highway of the road,

and before I'd pass the dunghill,

I'd hear himself snoring out,

a loud lonesome snore
he'd be making all times,

the while he was sleeping,

and he a man w0uld'd be raging all times,

the while he was waking,

like a gaudy officer you'd
hear him cursing and damning

and swearing oaths.

Providence and Mercy, spare us all!

It's that you'd say
surely if you seen him

and he after drinking for weeks,
rising up in the red dawn,

or before it maybe,

and going out into the yard
as naked as an ash tree

in the moon of May.

I'd be well-night afeard of
that lad myself, I'm thinking.

And there was no one in it
but the two of you alone?

The devil a one,

though he had sons and
daughters walking all great

states and territories of the world,

and not a one of them, to this day,

but would say their seven curses on him.

Well, you should have been a queer lot.

I never cursed my father the like of that.

Then you'd have cursed
mine, I'm telling you,

and he a man never gave peace to any,

saving only when he'd
get two months or three,

or be locked in the asylums
for battering peelers

or assaulting men.

The way it was a bitter life he led me

till I did up a Tuesday
and halve his skull.

Well, you'll have peace in
this place, Christy Mahon,

and none to trouble you,

and it's near time a fine lad like you

had your good share of the earth.

It's time surely,

and I a seemly fellow
with great strength in me

and bravery of-

Glory!

It's late for knocking.

And this last while I'm
in terror of the peelers,

and the walking dead.

Who's there?

Me.

Who's me?

The Widow Quin.

Go on now with your supper,
and let on to be sleepy,

for if she found you were
such a warrant to talk,

she'd be stringing gabble
till the dawn of day.

What ails you,

or what is it you're wanting
at this hour of the night?

I'm after meeting Shawn
Keogh and Father Reilly below,

who told me of your curiosity man,

and they fearing by this
time he was maybe roaring,

romping on your hands with drink.

Look now is he roaring,

and he stretched out
drowsy with his supper

and his mug of milk.

Walk down and tell that to Father Reilly

and to Shaneen Keogh.

I'll not see them again,

for I've their word to
lead that lad forward

for to lodge with me.

This night, is it?

This night.

"It isn't fitting," says the priesteen,

"to have his likeness lodging
with an orphaned girl."

God save you, mister!

God save you kindly.

Well, aren't you a
little smiling fellow?

It should have been
great and bitter torments

did rouse your spirits to a deed of blood.

It should, maybe.

It's more than "maybe" I'm saying,

and it'd soften my
heart to see you sitting

so simple with your cup and cake,

and you fitter to be saying your catechism

than slaying your da.

There's talk when any'd
see he's fit to be holding

his head high with the
wonders of the world.

Walk on from this,

for I'll not have him
tormented and he destroyed

travelling since Tuesday was a week.

We'll be walking surely
when his supper's done,

and you'll find we're great
company, young fellow,

when it's of the like of you and me

you'd hear the penny poets
singing in an August Fair.

Did you kill your father?

She did not.

She hit himself with a worn pick,

and the rusted poison
did corrode his blood

the way he never overed
it, and died after.

That was a sneaky kind of murder

did win small glory with the boys itself.

If it didn't, maybe
all knows a widow woman

has buried her children
and destroyed her man

is a wiser comrade for
a young lad than a girl,

the like of you, who'd
go helter-skeltering

after any man would let
you a wink upon the road.

And you'll say that, Widow Quin,

and you gasping with the
rage you had racing the hill

beyond to look on his face.

Me, is it?

Well, Father Reilly has
cuteness to divide you now.

There's great temptation
in a man did slay his da,

and we'd best be going, young fellow,

so rise up and come with me.

He'll not stir.

He's pot-boy in this place,

and I'll not have him
stolen off and kidnapped

while himself's abroad.

It'd be a crazy pot-b0y'd
lodge him in the shebeen

where he works by day,

so you'd have a right to
come on, young fellow,

till you see my little houseen,

a perch off on the rising hill.

Wait till morning, Christy Mahon.

Wait till you see her leaky thatch

is growing more pasture for her buck goat

than her square of fields,

and her without a tramp itself

to keep in order the place at all.

When you see me contriving
in my little gardens,

Christy Mahon, you'll swear
the Lord God formed me

to be living lone, and that there isn't my

match in Mayo for mowing, or
thatching, or shearing a sheep.

It's true the Lord God
farmed you contriving deed.

Doesn't the world know
you'd kill a black rabbit

at your own breast?

Doesn't the world know
you were seen shaving

the foxy skipper from
France, for a trumpet

and supper of grass tobacco
would ring the liver

from a mountain goat
you meet in the hills?

Do you hear her now young fellow?

Do you hear the way she'll
be raving at your own self

when a week is by?

Don't mind her.

Tell her to go into her
pigsty and not plague us here.

I'm going, but he'll come with me.

Are you dumb, young fellow?

God save you, but
I'm pot-boy in this place,

and it's here I'd liefer stay.

Now you have heard him, and
let you walk on from this.

It's lonesome this
hour crossing the hill,

and if he won't come along with me,

I'd have a right maybe to stop
this night with yourselves.

Let me stretch out on
the settle, Pegeen Mike,

and himself can lie by the hearth.

Faith, I won't.

Quit off or I will send you now.

Well, it's a terror to be aged a score.

God bless you now, young
fellow, and let you be wary,

or there's right torment
will await you here

if you go romancing with her
like, and she waiting only,

as they bade me say, on
a sheepskin parchment

to be wed with Shawn Keogh of Killakeen.

What's that she's after saying?

Lies and blather,
you've no call to mind.

Well, isn't Shawn Keogh an impudent fellow

to send up spying on me?

Wait till I lay hands on him.

Let him wait, I'm saying.

And you're not wedding him at all?

I wouldn't wed him if
a bishop came walking for

to join us here.

That God in his glory
may be thanked for that.

There's your bed now.

I've put a quilt upon it,

I'm after quilting a while
since with my own two hands,

and let you stretch
out now for your sleep,

and may God give you a good rest

till I call you in the morning
when the cocks will crow.

May God and Mary and St. Patrick
bless you and reward you,

for your kindly talk.

Well, it's a clean bed and soft with it,

and it's great luck and company

I've won me in the end of time,

two fine women fighting
for the likes of me,

till I'm thinking this night

wasn't I a foolish fellow not to kill my

father in the years gone by.

Well, this'd be a fine
place to be my whole life

talking out with swearing Christians,

in place of my old dogs and cat,

and I stalking around,

smoking my pipe and drinking my fill,

and never a day's work but
drawing a cork an odd time,

or wiping a old glass,

or rinsing out a shiny
tumbler for a decent man.

Didn't I know rightly I was handsome,

though it was the devil's
own mirror we had beyond,

would twist a squint
across an angel's brow,

and I'll be growing fine from this day,

the way I'll have a soft lovely skin on me

and won't be the like of the clumsy young

fellows do be ploughing all
times in the earth and dung.

Stranger girls.

God help me,

where'|| I hide myself and my
long neck naked to the world?

There's surely nobody with us.

It'd be early for them both
to be out walking the hill.

I'm thinking Shawn Keogh
was making game of us

and there's no such man in it at all.

Look at that.

He's been sleeping there in the night.

Well, it'll be a hard
case if he's gone off now,

the way we'll never set our eyes

on the man that killed his father,

and we after rising early

and destroying ourselves
running fast on the hill.

Are you thinking them's his boots?

If they are, there should
be his father's track on them.

Did you never read in the papers the way

murdered men do bleed and drip?

Is that blood there, Sara Tansey?

That's bog water, I'm thinking,

but it's his own they are surely,

for I never seen the
like of them for red mud,

and whit y mud, and turf on them,

and the fine sands of the sea.

That man's been walking, I'm telling you.

Maybe he's stolen off to Belmullet

with the boots of Michael James,

and it's you who sort of a right

to go after him, Sara Tansey?

Don't be talking, and we fooled today.

There's a pair do fit me well,

and I'll be keeping them
for going up to the priest,

when you'd be ashamed this place,

going up winter and summer
with nothing worth while

to confess at all.

Whisht!

There's somebody inside in the room.

It's a man.

I'll call him.

Mister!

Is Pegeen within?

She's above on the hill,
seeking the nanny goats,

the way she'd have a sup of
goat's milk for to colour my tea.

And asking your pardon,

is it you's the man killed his father?

I am, God help me!

Then my thousand welcomes to you,

and I've run up with a brace
of duck's eggs for your food.

Pegeen's ducks is no use, but
these are the real rich sort.

Hold out your hand and
you'll see it's no lie

I'm telling you.

They're a great and weighty size.

And I run up with a pat of butter,

for it'd be a sad thing to
have you eating your spuds dry,

and you after running a great way

since you did destroy your da.

Thank you kindly.

And I brought you a little cut of cake,

for you should have a thin stomach on you,

and you that length walking the world.

And I brought you a
little boiled pullet,

was crushed at the fall of
night by the curate's car.

Feel the fat of that breast, Mister.

It's bursting, surely.

Will you pinch it?

Is your right hand too
sacred for to use at all?

It's a glass he has.

Well, I never to this day seen a man

with a looking-glass held to his back.

Them that kills their
fathers is a vain lot surely.

I'm very thankful to you all today.

What in glory has you
here at this hour of day?

That's the man killed his father.

I know well it's the man,

and I'm after putting him
down in the sports below

for racing, leaping, pitching,
and the Lord knows what.

That's right, Widow Quin.

I'll bet my dowry that
he'll lick the world.

If you will, you'd have
a right to have him fresh

and nourished in place of nursing a feast.

Are you fasting or fed, young fellow?

Fasting, if you please.

Well, you're the lot.

Stir up now and give him his breakfast.

Come here to me and let
you tell us your story

before Pegeen will come,

in place of grinning your
ears off like the moon of May.

It's a long story, you'd
be destroyed listening.

Don't be letting on to be shy,

a fine, gamey, treacherous
lad the like of you.

Was it in your house beyond
you cracked his skull?

It was not.

We were digging spuds in
his cold, stony, sloping,

devil's patch of a field.

And you went asking money of him,

or making talk of getting a wife

would drive him from his farm?

I did not, then,

but there I was, digging and digging,

and "You squinting idiot," says he,

"let you walk down now
and tell the priest you'll"

"wed the Widow Casey in a score of days."

And what kind was she?

A walking horror from beyond the hills,

and she two score and five years,

and 200 weights and five
pounds in the weighing scales,

with a limping leg on her,

and a blinded eye,

and she a woman of noted
misbehaviour with the old and young.

Glory be.

And what did he want
driving you to wed with her?

He was letting on that
I was wanting a protector

against the harshness of the world,

and he without a thought the whole while

but how he'd have her hut to
live in and her gold to drink.

There's maybe worse than a dry hearth

and a widow woman and your glass at night.

So you hit him then?

I did not.

"I won't wed her," says I,

"when all know she did
suckle me for six weeks

"when I came into the world,

"and she a hag this day
with a tongue on her"

"has the crows and seabirds scattered,"

"the way they wouldn't
cast a shadow on her garden"

"with the dread of her curse."

That one should be right company.

Don't mind her.

Did you kill him then?

"She's too good for the
like of you," says he.

"Go on now or I'll flatten you"

"like a crawling beast
has passed under a dray."

"You will not if I can help it," says I.

"Go on or I'll have the
devil making garters"

"of your limbs tonight."

"You will not if I can help it," says I.

You were right surely.

And with that the sun
came out between the cloud

and the hill, and it
shining green in my face.

"God have mercy on your soul," says he,

lifting a scythe, "or on your
own," says I, raising the loy.

That's a grand story.

He tells it lovely.

He gave a drive with the scythe,

and I gave a lep to the east.

Then I turned around with
my back to the north,

and I hit a blow on
the ridge of his skull,

laid him stretched out,

and he split to the knob of his gullet.

You're the lad surely!

I'm thinking the Lord
God sent him this road

to make a second husband
to the Widow Quin,

and she with a great
yearning to be wedded,

though all about dread her here.

Lift him up now on her knee, Sara Tansey.

Don't tease him.

You're heroes surely,
and let you drink a supeen

with your arms linked
like the outlandish lovers

in the sailor's song.

There now.

Let you drink a health to the
wonders of the western world,

the pirates, preachers, and poteen-makers,

with the jobbing jockies,
and the parching peelers,

and the juries fill their stomachs selling

judgments of the English law.

That's a right toast, Sara Tansey.

Now Christy.

What is it you're wanting?

An ounce of tobacco.

Have you tuppence?

I've forgotten my purse.

Well then you'd best be getting it

and not fooling us here.

And what is it you're wanting, Widow Quin?

A penn'orth of starch.

And you without a white shirt or a shift

in your whole family since
the drying of the flood.

I've no starch for the likes of you,

and let you walk on now to Killamuck.

Well, you're mighty huffy
this day, Pegeen Mike,

and, you young fellow, let
you not forget the sports

and racing when the noon is by.

Fling out that rubbish
and put them cups away.

And put the bench by the wall.

And hang that glass on the nail.

What disturbed it at all?

I was making myself decent only,

and this a fine country
for young lovely girls.

Whisht your talking of girls.

Wouldn't any wish to
be decent in a place...

Whisht I'm saying.

It was with a loy the like
of that I killed my father.

You've told me that story six
times since the dawn of day.

Isn't it a queer thing
you wouldn't care to be

hearing it and them girls
after walking four miles

to be listening to me now.

Four miles.

That lot came over the
river lepping the stones.

It's not three perches
when you go like that,

and I was down this morning
looking on the papers

the post-boy does have in his bag.

For there was great news
this day, Christopher Mahon.

Is it news of my murder'?

Murder, indeed.

A murdered da?

There was not,

but a story filled half a page
about the hanging of a man.

Ah, that should be a
fearful end, young fellow,

and it worst of all for a
man who destroyed his da,

for there is small mercies
for the like of him,

and when it's dead he is, they'd
put him in a narrow grave,

with cheap sacking wrapping him round,

and pour down quicklime on his head,

the way you'd see a woman throw
any frish-f rash from a cup.

Oh, God help me.

Are you thinking I'm safe?

You were saying at the fall of night,

I was shut of jeopardy and
I here with yourselves.

You'll be shut of jeopardy
no place if you go talking

with a pack of wild girls the like of them

do be walking abroad with the peelers,

talking whispers at the fall of night.

And you're thinking they'd tell?

Who knows, God help you.

What joy would they
have to bring hanging

to the likes of me?

It's queer joys they have,

and who knows the thing they'd do,

if it'd make the green stones cry itself

to think of you swaying and swiggling

at the butt of a rope,

and you with a fine,
stout neck, God bless you!

The way you'd be a half
an hour, in anguish,

getting your death.

If there's that terror of
them, it'd be best, maybe,

I went on wandering like
Esau or Cain and Abel

on the sides of Neifin or the Erris plain.

It would, maybe, for I've
heard the Circuit Judges

this place is a heartless crew.

It's more than Judges this
place is a heartless crew.

And isn't it a poor thing
to be starting again

and I a lonesome fellow will
be looking on women and girls

the way the needy fallen spirits
do be looking on the Lord?

What call have you to be that lonesome

when there's poor girls walking
Mayo in their thousands now?

It's well you know what call I have.

It's well you know it's a lonesome thing

to be passing small towns
with the lights shining

sideways when the night is down,

or going in strange
places with a dog nosing

before you and a dog nosing behind,

or drawn to the cities where
you'd hear a voice kissing

and talking deep love in
every shadow of the ditch,

and you passing on with an empty,

hungry stomach failing from your heart.

I'm thinking you're an
odd man, Christy Mahon.

The oddest walking fellow
I ever set my eyes on

to this hour today.

What would any be but odd men

and they living lonesome in the world?

I'm not odd, and I'm my
whole life with my father only.

How could a lovely handsome
woman the like of you

be lonesome when all men should
be thronging around to hear

the sweetness of your voice,

and the little infant children should be

pestering your steps I'm thinking,

and you walking the roads.

I'm hard set to know
what way a coaxing fellow

the like of yourself
should be lonesome either.

Coaxing?

Would you have me think a
man never talked with the girls

would have the words you've spoken today?

It's only letting on
you are to be lonesome,

the way you'd get around me now.

I wish to God I was letting on,

but I was lonesome all
times, and born lonesome,

I'm thinking, as the moon of dawn.

Well, it's a story I'm
not understanding at all

why you'd be worse than
another, Christy Mahon,

and you with the great
savagery to destroy your da.

It's little I'm understanding myself,

saving only that my
heart's scalded this day,

and I going off stretching
out the earth between us,

the way I won't be waking near
you another dawn of the year

till the two of us do
meet to hope orjudgement

with the saints of God,

and now I'd best be going
with my wattle in my hand,

for hanging is a poor thing,

and it's little welcome only is left me

in this house today.

Christy!

Come hereto me.

Lay down that switch and
throw some sods on the fire.

You're pot-boy in this place,

and I'll not have you
mitch off from us now.

You were saying I'd be hanged if I stay.

I'm after going down and
reading the fearful crimes

of Ireland for two weeks or three,

and there wasn't a word of your murder.

They've likely not found the body.

You're safe so with ourselves.

It's making game of me you were

and I can stay so, working by your side,

and I not lonesome from this mortal day.

What's to hinder you staying,

except the widow woman or the young girls

would inveigle you off?

And I'll have your words
filling my ears from this day,

and that look is come upon
you meeting my two eyes,

and I watching you loafing
around in the warm sun,

or rinsing your ankles
when the night is come.

I'm thinking you'll be a loyal young lad

to have working around the place,

and if you vexed me a while since

with your leaguing with the girls,

I wouldn't give a thraneen
for a lad hadn't a mighty

spirit in him and a gamey heart.

I was passing below,

and I seen your mountain y
sheep eating cabbages

in Jimmy's field.

Run up or they'll be bursting surely.

God mend them!

I'd best go to her aid
maybe for I'm handy with ewes.

She can do that much,
and there is Shaneen

has long speeches for to tell you now.

Do you see that, mister?

The half of a ticket
to the Western States!

I'll give it to you and my new hat,

and my breeches with the double seat,

and my new coat is woven
from the blackest shearings

for three miles around,

I'll give you the whole
of them, and my blessing,

and the blessing of Father
Reilly itself, maybe,

if you'll quit from this
and leave us in the peace

we had till last night
at the fall of dark.

And for what is it you're
wanting to get shut of me?

I'm a poor scholar with
middling faculties to coin a lie,

so I'll tell you the truth, Christy Mahon.

I'm wedding with Pegeen beyond,

and I don't think well of
having a clever fearless

man the like of you dwelling in her house.

And you'd be using
bribery for to banish me?

Let you not take it badly, mister honey,

isn't beyond the best place for you.

It's true for him,

and you'd best quit off
and not have that poor girl

setting her mind on you,

for there's Shaneen thinks
she wouldn't suit you

though all is saying
that she'll wed you now.

She wouldn't suit you,

and she with the devil's own temper

the way you'd be strangling
one another in a score of days.

Fit them clothes on
you anyhow, young fellow,

and he'd maybe loan them to
you for the sports below.

Fit them on and you can give your answer

when you have them tried.

I will then.

I'd like herself to see
me in them tweeds and hat.

He'd like herself to see them.

He'll not leave us, Widow Quin.

He's a score of devils in him
the way it's well nigh certain

he will wed Pegeen.

It's true all girls are fond of courage

and do hate the likes of you.

Oh, Widow Quin, what'|| I be doing now?

I'd inform again him,

but he'd bust from prison

and he'd be sure and
certain to destroy me.

If I wasn't so God-fearing,
I'd near have courage to

come behind him and
run a pike in his side.

Oh, it's a hard case to be an orphan

and not to have your
father that you're used to,

and you'd easy kill and
make yourself a hero

in the sight of all.

Oh, Widow Quin,

will you find me some contrivance

when I've promised you a ewe?

A ewe's a small thing,

but what would you give
me if I did wed him

and did save you so?

You?

Aye, me.

Would you give me the red cow you have

and the mountain y ram,

and the right of way across your rye path,

and a load of dung at Michaelmas,

and turbary upon the western hill?

I would surely, and I'd give
you the wedding-ring I have,

and the loan of a new suit,
the way you'd have him decent

for the wedding-day.

I'd give you two kids for your dinner,

and a gallon of poteen,

and I'd call the piper on
the long car to your wedding

from Crossmolina or from Ballina.

Let you whisht, for
he's coming now again.

If you seen yourself now,

I'm thinking you'd be too
proud to speak to at all,

and it'd be a pity surely to
have your like sailing from

Mayo to the Western World.

I'm not going.

If this is a poor place itself,

I'll make myself contented
to be lodging here.

Well, I'm going
measuring the race-course

while the tide is low, so
I'll leave you the garments

and my blessing for the sports today.

God bless you!

Well, you're mighty
spruce, young fellow.

Sit down there while you're
quiet till you talk with me.

I'm going abroad on the
hillside for to seek Pegeen.

You'll have time and
plenty for to seek Pegeen,

and you heard me saying
at the fall of night

the two of us should be great company.

From this out I'll
have no want of company

when all sorts is bringing
me their food and clothing

the way they'd set their
eyes upon a gallant orphan

cleft his father with one
blow to the breeches belt.

Saints of glory!

Holy angels from the throne of light!

What ails you?

It's the walking
spirit of my murdered da?

Is it that tramper?

Where'|| I hide my poor
soul from that ghost of hell?

God save you, my poor man.

Did you see a young lad passing this way

in the early morning or the fall of night?

You're a queer kind to
walk in not saluting at all.

Did you see the young lad?

What kind was he?

An ugly young streeler
with a murderous gob on him,

I met a tramper seen him coming this way

at the fall of night.

There's harvest hundreds
do be passing these days

for the Sligo boat.

For what is it you're
wanting him, my poor man?

I want to destroy him
for breaking the head on me

with the clout of a loy.

It was he did that,

and amn't I a great wonder

to think I've traced him ten days

with that rent in my crown?

That was a great blow.

And who hit you?

A robber maybe?

It was my own son hit me,
and he the devil a robber,

or anything else, but a
dirty, stuttering lout.

You'd best be wary of a mortified scalp,

I think they call it,

lepping around with that wound
in the splendour of the sun.

It was a bad blow surely,

and you should have vexed him fearful

to make him strike that gash in his da.

And isn't it a great shame when the old

and hardened do torment the young?

Torment him is it?

Amn't I after saying it is
himself has me destroyed,

and he a liar on walls, a talker of folly,

a man you'd see stretched
the half of the day

in the brown ferns with
his belly to the sun.

Not working at all?

The devil a work, or if he did itself,

you'd see him raising up a haystack

like the stalk of a rush,

or driving our last cow till
he broke her leg at the hip,

and when he wasn't at
that he'd be fooling over

little birds he had, finches and felts,

or making mugs at his
own self in the bit of

glass we had hung on the wall.

In what way was he so foolish?

It was running wild
after the girls may be?

Running wild, is it?

If he seen a red petticoat
coming swinging over the hill,

he'd be off to hide in the sticks,

and you'd see him shooting
out his sheep's eyes

between the little twigs and the leaves,

and his two ears rising like a hare

looking out through a gap.

Girls, indeed!

I'd give the world and
all to see the like of him.

What kind was he?

An ugly old baggart, dark and dirty.

I'm thinking I seen him.

A hideous, fearful
villain, and the spit of you.

What way is he fled?

Gone over the hills to
catch a coasting steamer

to the north or south.

Could I pull up on him now?

If you'll cross the sands
below where the tide is out,

you'll be in it as soon as himself.

Strike down by the head beyond

and then follow on the
roadway to the north and east.

Well, you're the walking
Playboy of the Western World,

and that's the poor man you had divided

to his breeches belt.

What'|| Pegeen say when
she hears that story?

What'|| she be saying to me now?

She'll knock the head
of you, I'm thinking,

and drive you from the door.

God help her to be
taking you for a wonder,

and you a little schemer
making up the story

you destroyed your da.

To be letting on he was dead,
and coming back to his life,

and following me here like
an old weasel tracing a rat,

and coming in here laying
desolation between my own self

and the fine women of Ireland,

and he a kind of carcass that
you'd fling upon the sea!

There's talking for
a man's one only son.

His one son, is it?

May I meet him with one
tooth and it aching,

and one eye to be seeing
seven and seventy devils

in the twists of the road,
and one old timber leg

on him to limp into the scalding grave.

There he goes now crossing the strands,

and that the Lord God
would send a high wave

to wash him from the world.

Have you no shame?

What ails you?

Near crying, is it?

Amn't I after seeing
the love-light of the star

of knowledge shining from her brow,

and hearing words would put
you thinking on the holy Brigid

speaking to the infant
saints, and now she'll be

turning again, and
saying hard words to me.

There's poetry talk for a girl

you'd see itching and scratching,

and she with a stale stink of poteen

on her from selling in the shop.

It's her like is fitted
to be handling merchandise

in the heavens above, and
what'|| I be doing now,

I ask you, and I a kind of
wonder jilted by the heavens

when a day was by.

You'll be doing like
myself, I'm thinking,

when I did destroy my man,
for I'm above many's the day,

odd times in great spirits,
abroad in the sunshine,

darning a stocking or darning a shift,

and odd times again looking
out on the schooners, hookers,

trawlers is sailing the sea,

and I thinking on the
gallant hairy fellows

are drifting beyond,

and myself long years living alone.

You're like me, so.

I am your like,

and it's for that I'm
taking a fancy to you,

and I with my little houseen above

where there'd be myself to tend you,

and none to ask were you
a murderer or what at all.

And what would I be
doing if I left Pegeen?

I've nice jobs you could be doing,

gathering shells to make a
whitewash for our hut within,

building up a little goose-house maybe,

stretching a new skin on
an old curragh I have,

and if my hut is far from all sides,

it's there you'll meet the
wisest old men, I tell you,

at the corner of my wheel,

and it's there yourself and
me will have great times

whispering and hugging...

- Christy!

Is it Pegeen Mike?

It's the young girls, I'm thinking,

coming to bring you to the sports below,

and what is it you'll
have me to tell them now?

Aid me for to win Pegeen.

It's herself only that I'm seeking now.

Aid me for to win her,

and I'll be asking God
to stretch a hand out

in the hour of death,
and lead you short cuts

through the Meadows of Ease,

and up the floor of
Heaven to the Footstool

of the Virgin's Son.

There's praying.

Christy!

- Christy Mahon!
- They're coming.

Will you swear to aid and save
me for the love of Christ?

If I aid you, will
you swear to give me a

and a mountain y ram, and
a right of way you have,

and a load of dung at Michaelmas,

the time that you'll be master here?

I will, by the elements
and stars of night.

Then we'll not say a
word of the old fellow,

the way Pegeen won't know your
story till the end of time.

And if he should chance to return again?

We'll swear he's a
maniac and not your da.

I could take an oath I seen
him raving on the sands today.

Come on, come on to the sports below.

Pegeen says you're to come.

The |epping's beginning,
and we've a jockey's suit

to fit upon you for the mule
race on the sands below.

Come on, will you?

I will then if Pegeen's beyond.

She's down in the boreen
making game of Shaneen Keogh.

Then I'll be going to her now.

Well, if the worst comes to
the worst in the end of all,

it'll be great game to see
there's none to pity him

but a widow woman, the like of me,

who's buried her children
and destroyed her man.

Here's his prizes!

A bagpipe!

A fiddle by a poet played
in the years gone by!

A flat and three-themed
blackthorn would lick

the scholars out of Dublin town!

Thank you kindly, the lot of you.

But you'd say it was
little only I did this day

if you'd seen me a while since
striking my one single blow.

Well, you're the lad,

and you'll have great times
from this out, I'm thinking,

when you could win that wealth of prizes,

and you sweating in the heat of noon!

I'll have great times if
I win the crowning prize

I'm seeking now, and that's
your promise that you'll wed me

in a fortnight, when our banns is called.

You've right daring to go ask me that,

when all knows you'll
be starting to some girl

in your own townland,

when your father's rotten
in four months, or five.

Starting from you, is it?

I will not, then, and when the airs

is warming in four months, or five,

it's then yourself and me
should be pacing Neifin

in the dews of night,

the times sweet smells do be rising,

and you'd see a little
shiny new moon, maybe,

sinking on the hills.

And it's that kind of a
poacher's love you'd make,

Christy Mahon, on the sides of Neifin,

when the night is down?

It's little you'll think
if my love's a poacher's,

or an earl's itself,

when you'll feel my two
hands stretched around you,

and I squeezing kisses
on your puckered lips,

till I'd feel a kind of
pity for the Lord God is

all ages sitting lonesome
in his golden chair.

That'|| be right fun, Christy Mahon,

and any girl would walk her heart out

before she'd meet a young man
was your like for eloquence,

or for talk, at all.

Let you wait, to hear me talking

till we're astray in Erris,

when Good Friday's by,

drinking a sup from a well,

and making mighty kisses
with our wetted mouths,

or gaming in a gap or sunshine,

with yourself stretched
back unto your necklace,

in the flowers of the earth.

I'd be nice so, is it?

If the mitred bishops
seen you that time,

they'd be the like of the
holy prophets, I'm thinking,

do be straining the bars of Paradise

to lay eyes on the Lady Helen of Troy,

and she pacing back and forward

with a nosegay in her golden shawl.

What is it I have, Christy Mahon,

to make me fitting entertainment
for the like of you,

such a poet's talking,
and such bravery of heart?

Isn't there the light of seven heavens

in your heart alone,

the way you'll be an angel's
lamp to me from this out,

and I abroad in the darkness,
spearing salmons in the Owen,

or the Carrowmore?

If I was your wife, I'd be
along with you those times,

the way you'd see I was a
great hand at coaxing bailiffs,

or coining funny nick-names
for the stars of night.

You, is it?

Taking your death in the hailstones,

or in the fogs of dawn.

Yourself and me would
shelter easy in a narrow bush,

but we're only talking, maybe,

for this would be a poor, thatched place

to be holding a fine
lad is the like of you.

If I wasn't a good Christian,

it's on my naked knees
I'd be saying my prayers

and paters to every jackstraw
you have roofing your head,

and every stony pebble is
paving the laneway to your door.

If that's the truth, I'll
be burning candles from this

out to the miracles of
God that have brought you

from the south today, and I,
with my gowns bought ready,

the way that I can wed
you, and not wait at all.

It's miracles, and that's the truth.

Me there toiling a long while,
and walking a long while,

not knowing at all I was
drawing all times nearer

to this holy day.

And I, a girl, was tempted
often to go sailing the seas

till I'd marry a Jew-man,
with ten kegs of gold,

and I not knowing at
all there was your like

drawing nearer, like the stars of God.

And to think I'm long
years hearing women

talking that talk, to all bloody fools,

and this the first time I've
heard the like of your voice

talking sweetly for my own delight.

And to think it's me is
talking sweetly, Christy Mahon,

and I the fright of seven
townlands for my biting tongue.

Well, the heart's a wonder,

and, I'm thinking, there
won't be our like in Mayo,

for gallant lovers, from this hour, today.

There's my father back from the wake,

we'll tell him when he's had his sleep

for he's peaceful then.

The blessing of God and
the holy angels on your head,

young fellow.

I hear tell you're after
winning all in the sports below,

isn't it a shame I didn't
bear you along with me

to Kate Cassidy's wake, a fine, stout lad,

as the like of you,

for you'd never see the match
of it for flows of drink.

Is that the truth?

It is.

And aren't you a lout y schemer
to go burying your poor

father unbeknownst when
you'd a right to throw him

on the crupper of a Kerry
mule and bear him westwards,

like holy Joseph in the days gone by,

the way we could have
given him a decent burial,

and not have him rotting beyond,

and not a Christian drinking a smart drop

to the glory of his soul?

It's well enough he's
lying, for the likes of him.

Well, aren't you a hardened slayer?

It'll be a poor thing
for the household man

where you go sniffing for a female wife,

and look beyond at that
shy and decent Christian

I have chosen for my daughter's hand,

and I after getting the gilded

dispensation this day for to wed them now.

And you'll be wedding
them this day, is it?

Aye.

Are you thinking, if I'm drunk itself,

I'd leave my daughter living single

with a little frisky
rascal is the like of you?

Is it the truth the dispensation's come?

Father Reilly's after
reading it in gallous Latin,

and "It's come in the
nick of time," says he,

"so I'll wed them in a hurry,"

"dreading that young gaffer
who'd capsize the stars."

He's missed his nick of
time, for it's that lad,

Christy Mahon, that I'm wedding now.

You'd be making him a son to me,

and he wet and crusted
with his father's blood?

Aye.

Wouldn't it be a bitter
thing to go marrying the

like of Shaneen Keogh,

and he a middling kind of a scarecrow,

with no savagery or fine
words in him at all?

Oh, aren't you a heathen daughter

to go shaking the fat of my heart,

and I swamped and drownded
with the weight of drink?

Have you no words to aid me, Shaneen?

Are you not jealous at all?

I'd be afeard to be jealous
of a man did slay his da.

Well, it'd be a poor thing
to go marrying your like.

I'm after seeing there's a world of peril

for an orphan girl,

and isn't it a great
blessing I didn't wed you,

before himself came walking
from the the west or the south?

It's a queer story you'd
go picking a dirty tramp up

from the highways of the world.

And you think you're a
likely beau to go straying

along with, the shiny
Sundays of the opening year,

when it's sooner on a bullock's
liver you'd put a poor girl

thinking than on the lily or the rose?

And have you no mind
of my weight of passion,

and of the holy dispensation,

and the drift of heifers I am
giving, and the golden ring?

I'm thinking you're too
fine for the likes of me,

Shawn Keogh of Killakeen,

and let you go off till
you'd find a radiant lady

with droves of bullocks
on the plains of Meath,

and herself bedizened in
the diamond jeweleries

of Pharaoh's ma.

That'd be more your like, Shawn Keogh.

So God save you now!

Won't you hear me telling you?

Best be off, young fellow, or I'll

maybe add a murder to my deeds today.

Murder is it?

Would you make a murder in this place,

and it piled with poteen
for our drink to-night?

Go on to the foreshore if
it's fighting you want,

where the rising tide will wash

all traces from the memory of man.

I'll not fight him, Michael James.

I'd liefer live a bachelor,

simmering in passions to the end of time,

than face a lepping savage the like of him

has descended from the Lord knows where.

Fight him yourself, Michael
James, or you'll lose my drift

of heifers and my blue bull from Sneem.

Is it me fight to him,

when it's father-slaying he's bred to now?

Go on you fool and fight him now.

Will I strike him with my hand?

Use the loy is on your western side.

I'd be afeard of the
gallows if I struck with that.

Then I'll make you face the
gallows or quit off from this.

May fine weather be after him,

and I'm thinking you wouldn't
want that quaking blackguard

in your house at all.

Let you give us your blessing

and hear her swear her faith to me,

for I'm mounted on the
spring-tide of the stars of luck,

the way it'll be good for
any to have me in the house.

Bless us now, for I swear I'll wed him,

and I'll not renege.

It's the will of God, I'm thinking,

that all should win an
easy or a cruel end,

and it's the will of God
that all should raise up

lengthy families for the
nurture of the earth.

What's a single man, I ask you,

eating a bit in one house and
drinking a sup in another,

and him with no place of his own,

like an old braying jackass
strayed upon the rocks?

It's many would be in dread

to bring your like into their
house to end them, maybe,

with a sudden end,

but I'm a decent man of Ireland,

and I'd liefer face the grave untimely

and I seeing a score of grandsons,

little gallant swearers
by the name of God,

than to go peopling my
bedside with puny weeds

the like of what you'd
breed, I'm thinking,

out oi Shane-en Keogh.

A daring fellow is the jewel of the world,

and a man did split his father's middle

with one single clout

should have the bravery often,

so may God and Mary and
St. Patrick bless you,

and increase you from this mortal day.

Amen, O Lord!

Stop that, will you, who are you at all?

His father, God forgive me!

Is it rose from the dead?

Do you think I look so easily quenched

with the tap of a loy?

And it's lies you told,

letting on you had him slitted,
and you nothing at all.

He's not my father.

He's a raving maniac that
would scare the world.

Herself knows it is true.

You're fooling Pegeen!

The Widow Quin seen him this
day, and you likely knew!

You're a liar!

And to think of the coaxing
glory we had given him,

and he after doing nothing
but hitting a soft blow

and chasing northward in a sweat of fear.

Quit off from this.

You've seen my doings this day,

and let you save me from the old man,

for why would you be in such a scorch

of haste to spur me to destruction now?

It's there your
treachery is spurring me,

till I'm hard set to think

you're the one I'm after
lacing in my heart-strings

half-an-hour gone by.

Take him on from this,

for I think bad the world
should see me raging

for a Munster liar, and the fool of men.

Rise up now to retribution,
and come on with me.

There's the playboy!

Will you come between
us and protect me now?

I've done my best, God help
me, and my share is done.

And I must go back
into my torment is it,

or run off like a
vagabond straying through

the Unions with the dusts
of August making mudstains

in the gullet of my throat.

Ask Pegeen to aid you.

Her like does often change.

I will not then,

for there's torment in
the splendour of her kind,

and she a girl that nay moon of midnight

would take pride to meet.

But what did I want crawling forward

to scorch my understanding
at her flaming brow?

Take him on from this

or I'll set the young
lads to destroy him here.

Come on now with me if
you wouldn't want to have

the company to see you skewed.

That's it, that's it, now
the world will see him pandied,

and he an ugly liar was
playing off the hero,

and the fright of men.

Leave me go!

That's it now, Christy.

If them two set fighting,
it will lick the world.

Leave me go, I'm saying.

I will maybe, when your legs is limping,

and your back is blue.

Shut your yelling,

for if you're after making
a mighty man of me this day

by the power of a lie,

you're setting me now to
think if it's a poor thing

to be lonesome,

it's worse maybe to go mixing
with the fools of earth.

Keep off lest I do show a
blow unto the lot of you

that'|| set the guardian angels
winking in the clouds above.

- He's going mad!
- Mind yourselves!

Run from the idiot!

If I am an idiot,

I'm after hearing myself
saying words this day

would raise the topknot on
a poet in a merchant's town.

I've won your racing, and your lepping...

Shut your gullet and come out with me.

I'm going, but I'll stretch you first.

The lad kills you surely.

I'm after hearing the last
gasps quicken his heart.

They're turning again you.

Come on, or you'll be hanged, indeed.

I'm thinking, from this out,

Pegeen'|| be giving me praises

the same as in the hours gone by.

Come by the back-door.

I'd think bad to have you
stifled on the gallows tree.

I will not, then.

What g0od'd be my
life-time, if I left Pegeen?

Come on, and you'll be no
worse than you were last night,

and you with a double murder this time

to be telling to the girls.

I'll not leave Pegeen Mike.

Isn't there the match of
her in every parish public,

from Binghamstown unto the plain of Meath?

Come on, and I'll find
you finer sweethearts

at each waning moon.

It's Pegeen I'm seeking only,

and what'd I care if you brought

a drift of chosen females,

standing in their shifts itself, maybe,

from this place to the Eastern World?

They're going to hang him.

Fit these upon him, and let
him run off to the east.

He's raving now, but
we'll fit them on him,

and I'll take him, in the
ferry, to the Achill boat.

Leave me go!

When I'm thinking of my luck today,

for she will wed me surely,

and I a proven hero in the end of all.

Take his left hand,
and we'll pull him now.

Come on, young fellow.

You'll be taking me from her?

You're jealous, is it, of her wedding me?

Go on from this.

It's in the mad-house
they should put him,

not in jail, at all.

We'll go by the back-door
to get the doctor,

and we'll save him so.

Look at the way he is.

Twist a hangman's knot on it,
and slip it over his head,

while he's not minding at all.

Let you take it, Shaneen.

You're the soberest of all that's here.

Is it me to go near him,

and him the wickedest and worst with me?

Let you take it, Pegeen Mike.

Come on, so.

What ails you?

Come on to the peelers,
till they stretch you now.

If we took pity on you, the
Lord God would bring us ruin

from the law today, so
that you'd come easy,

for hanging is an easy and a speedy end.

I'll not stir.

And what is it you'll be saying now,

and I after doing it this
time in the face of all?

I'll say, a strange man is a
marvel, with his mighty talk,

but what's a squabble in your back-yard,

and the blow of a loy,

have taught me that there's a great gap

between a gallous story and a dirty deed.

And it's yourself
who'll be sending me off

to have a horny-fingered hangman

hitching his bloody slip-knots
at the butt of my ear.

Come on, will you?

Cut the rope, Pegeen, and
I'll quit the lot of you.

Take him on out from this.

That's your kind, is it?

Then let the lot of you be wary,

for, if I'm to face the gallows,
I'll have a gay march down,

I'm telling you, and shed
the blood of some of you

before I die.

My leg's bit on me.

He's the like of a mad dog, I'm thinking,

the way that I will surely die.

You will then,

the way you can shake out
hell's flags of welcome

for my coming in two weeks or three,

for I'm thinking Satan hasn't
many have killed their da

in Kerry, and in Mayo too.

Will you look what's come in'?

Have you come to be killed a third time,

or what ails you now?

For what is it they have you tied?

They're taking me to the peelers

to have me hanged for slaying you.

It is the will of God I'm
thinking that all should guard

their little cabins from
the treachery of law,

and what would my daughter be doing

if I was ruined or was hanged itself?

It's little I care if
you put a bag on her back,

and went picking cockles
till the hour of death,

but my son and myself
will be going our own way,

and we'll be having
great times from this out

telling stories of the villainy of Mayo,

and the fools is here.

Come on with me.

Go with you, is it?

I will then,

like a gallant captain
with his heathen slave.

Go on now then and I'll
see you from this day

stewing my oatmeal and washing my spuds,

for I'm master of all fights from now.

Go on from this.

Is it me?

Not a word out of you.

Go on/.

Glory be to God!

I am crazy again!

10,000 blessings upon all who's here,

for you've turned me a likely
gaffer in the end of all,

the way I'll go romancing
through a romping lifetime

from this hour to the dawning
of the judgement day.

By the will of God, we'll
have peace now for our drinks.

Draw the porter, Pegeen.

It's a miracle Father Reilly can wed us

in the end of all,

and we'll have none to trouble us

when his vicious bite is healed.

Quit my sight.

Oh my grief,

I've lost him surely.

I've lost the only Playboy
of the Western World.