THE PLAYBOY OF THE WESTERN WORLD


By John Millington Synge


Preface

In writing THE PLAYBOY OF THE WESTERN WORLD, as in my other plays, I have 
used one or two words only that I have not heard among the country people 
of Ireland, or spoken in my own nursery before I could read the newspayers. 
A certain number of the phrases I employ I have heard also from herds and 
fishermen along the coast from Kerry to Mayo, or from beggar-women and 
ballad-singers nearer Dublin; and I am glad to acknowledge how much I owe 
to the folk imagination of these fine people. Anyone who has lived in real 
intimacy with the Irish peasantry will know that the wildest sayings and 
ideas in this play are tame indeed, compared with the fancies one may hear 
in any little hillside cabin in Geesala, or Carraroe, or Dingle Bay. All 
art is a collaboration; and there is little doubt that in the happy ages of 
literature, striking and beautiful phrases were as ready to the story-
teller's or the play-wright's hand, as the rich cloaks and dresses of his 
time. It is probable that when the Elizabethan dramatist took his ink-horn 
and sat down to his work he used many phrases that he had just heard, as he 
sat at dinner, from his mother or his children. In Ireland, those of us who 
know the people have the same privilege. When I was writng The Shadow of 
the Glen, some years ago, I got more aid than any learning could have given 
me from a chink in the floor of the old Wicklow house where I was staying, 
that let me hear what was being said by the servant girls in the kitchen. 
This matter, I think, is of importance, for in countries where the 
imagination of the people, and the language they use, is rich and living, 
it is possible for a writer to be rich and copious in his words, and at the 
same time to give the reality, which is the root of all poetry, in a 
comprehensive and natural form. In the modern literature of towns, however, 
richness is found only in sonnets, or prose poems, or in one or two 
elaborate books that are far away from the profound and common interests of 
life. One has, on one side, Mallarme and Huysmans producing this 
literature; and on the other, Ibsen and Zola dealing with the reality of 
life in joyless and pallid words. On the stage one must have reality, and 
one must have joy; and that is why the intellectual modern drama has 
failed, and people have grown sick of the false joy of the musical comedy, 
that has been given them in place of the rich joy found only in what is 
superb and wild in reality. In a good play every speech should be as fully 
flavoured as a nut or apple, and such speeches cannot be written by anyone 
who works among people who have shut their lips on poetry. In Ireland, for 
a few years more, we have a popular imagination that is fiery, and 
magnificent, and tender; so that those of us who wish to write start with a 
chance that is not given to writers in places where the spring-time of the 
local life has been forgotten, and the harvest is a memory only and the 
straw has been turned into bricks. 

J.M.S. 
January 21st, 1907.




Persons In The Play


Christopher Mahon (CHRISTY)
Old MAHON, his father, a squatter
Micheal James Flaherty (called MICHAEL James), a publican
Margaret Flaherty (called PEGEEN Mike), his daughter

WIDOW QUIN, a woman of about thirty
SHAWN Keogh, her cousin, a young farmer
PHILLY Cullen and JIMMY Farrell, small farmers

SARA Tansey, SUSAN Brady and HONOR Blake, village girls
A Bellman - TOWN CRIER
Some Peasants 


The action takes place near a village, on a wild coast of Mayo. The lirst 
Act passes on an evening of autumn, the other two Acts on the following 
day.




The Playboy of the Western World

Act 1

Country public-house or shebeen, very rough and untidy. There is a sort of 
counter on the right with shelves, holding many bottles and jugs, just seen 
above it. Empty barrels stand near the counter. At back, a little to left 
of counter, there is a door into the open air, then, more to the left, 
there is a settle with shelves above it, with more jugs, and a table 
beneath a window. At the left there is a large open fire-place, with turf 
fire, and a small door into inner room. Pegeen, a wild-looking but fine 
girl, of about twenty, is writing at table. She is dressed in the usual 
peasant dress. 

PEGEEN (slowly as she writes). 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. 

SHAWN (a fat and fair young man comes in as she signs, looks round 
awkwardly, when he sees she is alone). Where's himself? 

PEGEEN (without looking at him). He's coming. (She directs letter). To 
Mister Sheamus Mulroy, Wine and Spirit Dealer, Castlebar. 

SHAWN (uneasily). I didn't see him on the road. 

PEGEEN. How would you see him (licks stamp and puts it on letter) and it 
dark night this half hour gone by? 

SHAWN (turning towards door again). I stood a while outside wondering would 
I have a right to pass on or to walk in and see you, Pegeen Mike (comes to 
fire), and could hear the cows breathing and sighing in the stillness of 
the air, and not a step moving any place from this gate to the bridge. 

PEGEEN (putting letter in envelope). It's above at the cross-roads he is, 
meeting Philly Cullen and a couple more are going along with him to Kate 
Cassidy's wake. 

SHAWN (looking at her blankly). And he's going that length in the dark 
night.

SHAWN (impatiently). He is surely, and leaving me lonesome on the scruff of 
the hill. (She gets up and puts envelope on dresser, then winds clock). 
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? 

SHAWN (with awkward humour). 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. 

PEGEEN (with rather scornful good-humour). You're making mighty certain, 
Shaneen, that I'll wed you now. 

SHAWN 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. 

PEGEEN (looking at him teasingly, washing up at dresser). 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 where you'll meet none but Red 
Linahan, has a squint in his eye, and Patcheen is lame in his heel, or the 
mad Mulrannies were driven from California and they lost in their wits. 
We're a queer lot these times to go troubling the Holy Father on his sacred 
seat. 

SHAWN (scandelized). If we are, we're as good this place as another, maybe, 
and as good these times as we were for ever. 

PEGEEN (with scorn). 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 great warrant to tell 
stories of holy Ireland till he'd have the old women shedding down tears 
about their feet. Where will you find the like of them, I'm saying? 

SHAWN (timidly). If you don't, it's a good job, maybe; for (with peculiar 
emphasis on the words) Father Reilly has small conceit to have that kind 
walking around and talking to the girls. 

PEGEEN (impatiently, throwing water from basin out of the door). Stop 
tormenting me with Father Reilly (imitating his voice) when I'm asking only 
what way I'll pass these twelve hours of dark, and not take my death with 
the fear. (Looking out of door.)

SHAWN (timidly). Would I fetch you the Widow Quin, maybe? 

PEGEEN. Is it the like of that murderer? You'll not, surely. 

SHAWN (going to her, soothingly). Then I'm thinking himself 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. 

PEGEEN (turning on him sharply). What's that? Is it a man you seen? 

SHAWN (retreating). 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. 

PEGEEN (going after him). And you never went near to see was he hurted or 
what ailed him at all? 

SHAWN. I did not, Pegeen Mike. It was a dark, lonesome place to be hearing 
the like of him. 

PEGEEN. Well, you're a daring fellow, and if they find his corpse stretched 
above in the dews of dawn, what'll you say then to the peelers, or the 
Justice of the Peace? 

SHAWN (thunderstruck). I wasn't thinking of that. For the love of God, 
Pegeen Mike, 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. 

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

SHAWN. They are coming at the door. Will you whisht, I'm saying? 

PEGEEN. Whisht yourself. 

She goes behind counter. Michael James, fat jovial publican, comes in 
followed by Philly Cullen, who is thin and mistrusting, and Jimmy Farrell, 
who is fat and amorous, about forty-five. 

MEN (together). God bless you! The blessing of God on this place! 

PEGEEN. God bless you kindly. 

MICHAEL (to men, who go to the counter). Sit down now, and take your rest. 
(Crosses to Shawn at the fire.) And how is it you are, Shawn Keogh? Are you 
coming over the sands to Kate Cassidy's wake?

SHAWN. I am not, Michael James. I'm going home the short cut to my bed. 

PEGEEN (speaking across the counter). He's right, too, and have you no 
shame, Michael James, to be quitting off for the whole night, and leaving 
myself lonesome in the shop? 

MICHAEL (good-humouredly). Isn't it the same whether I go for the whole 
night or a part only? and I'm thinking it's a queer, daughter you are if 
you'd have me crossing backward through the Stooks of the Dead Women, with 
a drop taken. 

PEGEEN. If I am a queer daughter, it's a queer father'd be leaving me 
lonesome these twelve hours of dark, and I piling the turf with the dogs 
barking, and the calves mooing, and my own teeth rattling with the fear. 

JIMMY (flatteringly). What is there to hurt you, and you a fine, hardy girl 
would knock the head of any two men in the place? 

PEGEEN (working herself up). Isn't there the harvest boys with their 
tongues red for drink, and the ten tinkers is camped in the east glen, and 
the thousand militia - bad cess to them! - -walking idle through the land. 
There's lots surely to hurt me, and I won't stop alone in it, let himself 
do what he will. 

MICHAEL. 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. 

They all turn on Shawn.

SHAWN (in horrified confusion). I would and welcome, Michael James, but I'm 
afeard of Father Reilly; and what at all would the Holy Father and the 
Cardinals of Rome be saying if they heard I did the like of that? 

MICHAEL (with contempt). 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, for 
I've heard tell there's a queer fellow above, going mad or getting his 
death, maybe, in the gripe of the ditch, so she'd be safer this night with 
a person here. 

SHAWN (with plaintive despair). I'm afeard of Father Reilly, I'm saying. 
Let you not be tempting me, and we near married itself. 

PHILLY (with cold contempt). Lock him in the west room. He'll stay then and 
have no sin to be telling to the priest. 

MICHAEL (to Shawn, getting between him and.fhe door). Go up now. 

SHAWN (at the top of his voice). 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 
(trying to dodge past him). Let me out of it, and may God grant you His 
indulgence in the hour of need. 

MICHAEL (loudly). Stop your noising, and sit down by the hearth. 

Gives him a push and goes to counter laughing. 

SHAWN (turning back, wringing his hands). 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! 

Shawn turns round, sees door clear, end makes a rush for it. 

MICHAEL (catching him by the coat-tail). You'd be going, is it? 

SHAWN (screaming). Leave me go, Michael James, leave me go, you old Pagan, 
leave me go, or I'll get the curse of the priests on you, and of the 
scarlet-coated bishops of the Courts of Rome. 

With a sudden movement he pulls himself out of his coat, and disappears out 
of the door, leaving his coat in Michael's hands.

MICHAEL (turning round, and holding up coat). 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 I've got you a decent man, Pegeen, you'll have no call 
to be spying after if you've a score of young girls, maybe, weeding in your 
fields. 

PEGEEN (taking up the defence of her property). 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? 

She snaps the coat away from him, and goes behind counter with it. 

MICHAEL (taken aback). Where would I get a pot-boy? Would you have me send 
the bellman screaming in the streets of Castlebar? 

SHAWN (opening the door a chink and putting in his head, in a small voice). 
Michael James! 

MICHAEL (imitating him). What ails you? 

SHAWN. The queer dying fellow's beyond looking over the ditch. He's come 
up, I'm thinking, stealing your hens. (Looks over his shoulder.) God help 
me, he's following me now (he runs into room), and if he's heard what I 
said, he'll be having my life, and I going home lonesome in the darkness of 
the night. 

For a perceptible mo1nent they watch  the door with curiosity. Some one 
coughs outside. Then Christy Mahon, a slight young man, comes in very tired 
and frightened and dirty. 

CHRISTY (in a small voice). God save all here! 

MEN. God save you kindly! 

CHRISTY (going to the counter). I'd trouble you for a glass of porter, 
woman of the house.

He puts down coin. 

PEGEEN (serving him). You're one of the tinkers, young fellow, is beyond 
camped in the glen? 

CHRISTY. I am not; but I'm destroyed walking. 

MICHAEL (patronizingly). Let you come up then to the fire. You're looking 
famished with the cold. 

CHRISTY. God reward you. (He takes up his glass and goes a little way 
across to the left, then stops and looks about him.) Is it often the polis 
do be coming into this place, master of the house? 

MICHAEL. If you'd come in better hours, you'd have seen "Licensed for the 
Sale of Beer and Spirits, to be Consumed on the Premises," written in white 
letters above the door, and what would the polis want spying on me, and not 
a decent house within four miles, the way every living Christian is a bona 
fide, saving one widow alone? 

CHRISTY (with relief). It's a safe house, so.

He goes over to the fire, sighing and moan ing. Then he sits down, putting 
his glass beside him, and begins gnawing a turnip, too miserable to feel 
the others staring at him with curiosity. 

MICHAEL (going after him). Is it yourself is fearing the polis? You're 
wanting, maybe? 

CHRISTY. There's many wanting. 

MICHAEL. Many, surely, with the broken harvest and the ended wars. (He 
picks up some stockings, etc., that are near the fire, and carries them 
away furtively.) It should be larceny, I'm thinking? 

CHRISTY (dolefully). I had it in my mind it was a different word and a 
bigger.

PEGEEN. There's a queer lad. Were you never slapped in school, young 
fellow, that you don't know the name of your deed? 

CHRISTY (bashfully). I'm slow at learning, a middling scholar only. 

MICHAEL. If you're a dunce itself, you'd have a right to know that 
larcenvys robbing and stealing. Is it for the like of that you're wanting? 

CHRISTY (with a flash of family pride). And I the son of a strong farmer 
(with a sudden qualm), God rest his soul, could have bought up the whole of 
your old house a while since, from the butt of his tailpocket, and not have 
missed the weight of it gone. 

MICHAEL (impressed). If it's not stealing, it's maybe something big. 

CHRISTY (flattered). Aye; it's maybe something big. 

JIMMY. He's a wicked-looking young fellow. Maybe he followed after a young 
woman on a lonesome night. 

CHRISTY (shocked). Oh, the saints forbid, mister; I was all times a decent 
lad. 

PHILLY (turning on Jimmy). You're a silly man, Jimmy Farrell. He said 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. 

MICHAEL (to Christy, mysteriously). Was it baliffs?

CHRISTY. The divil a one. 

MICHAEL. Agents? 

CHRISTY. The divil a one. 

MICHAEL. Landlords? 

CHRISTY (peevishly). 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. 

They all drew nearer with delighted curiosity. 

PHILLY. Well, that lad's a puzzle-the-world. 

JIMMY. He'd beat Dan Davies' circus, or the holy missioners making sermons 
on the villainy of man. Try him again, Philly. 

PHILLY. Did you strike golden guineas out of solder, young fellow, or 
shilling coins itself?

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

JIMMY. Did you marry three wives maybe? I'm told there's a sprinkling have 
done that among the holy Luthers of the preaching north.

CHRISTY (shyly). I never married with one, let alone with a couple or 
three. 

PHILLY. Maybe he went fighting for the Boers, the like of the man beyond, 
was judged to be hanged, quartered, and drawn. Were you off east, young 
fellow, fighting bloody wars for Kruger and the freedom of the Boers? 

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

PEGEEN (coming from counter). He's done nothing, so. (To Christy.) 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. 

CHRISTY (his feelings hurt). 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.

PEGEEN (with a sign to the men to be quiet). You're only saying it. You did 
nothing at all. A soft lad the like of you wouldn't slit the windpipe of a 
screeching sow. 

CHRISTY (offended)). You're not speaking the truth. 

PEGEEN (in mock rage). Not speaking the truth, is it? Would you have me 
knock the head of you with the butt of the broom? 

CHRISTY (twisting round on her with a sharp cry of horror). Don't strike 
me. I killed my poor father, Tuesday was a week, for doing the like of 
that. 

PEGEEN (with blank amazement). Is it killed your father? 

CHRISTY (subsiding). With the help of God I did, surely, and that the Holy 
Immaculate Mother may intercede for his soul. 

PHILLY (retreating with Jimmy). There's a daring fellow. 

JIMMY. Oh, glory be to God! 

MICHAEL (with great respect). That was a hanging crime, mister honey. You 
should have had good reason for doing the like of that.

CHRISTY (in a very reasonable tone). 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. 

PEGEEN. And you shot him dead? 

CHRISTY (shaking his head). I never used weapons. I've no licence, and I'm 
a lawfearing man. 

MICHAEL. It was with a hilted knife maybe? I'm told, in the big world, it's 
bloody knives they use. 

CHRISTY (loudly, scandalized). Do you take me for a slaughter-boy? 

PEGEEN. You never hanged him, the way Jimmy Farrell hanged his dog from the 
licence, and had it screeching and wriggling three hours at the butt of a 
string, and himself swearing it was a dead dog, and the peelers swearing it 
had life? 

CHRISTY. 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. 

MICHAEL (making a sign to Pegeen to fill Christy's glass). And what way 
weren't you hanged, mister? Did you bury him then?

CHRISTY (considering). Aye. I buried him then. Wasn't I digging spuds in 
the field? 

MICHAEL. And the peelers never followed after you the eleven days that 
you're out? 

CHRISTY (shaking his head). Never a one of them, and I walking forward 
facing hog, dog, or divil on the highway of the road. 

PHILLY (nodding wisely). It's only with a common week-day kind of a 
murderer them lads would be trusting their carcase, and that man should be 
a great terror when his temper's roused. 

MICHAEL. He should then. (To Christy.) And where was it, mister honey, that 
you did the deed? 

CHRISTY (looking at him with suspicion.) Oh, a distant place, master of the 
house, a windy corner of high, distant hills. 

PHILLY (nodding with approval). He's a close man, and he's right, surely. 

PEGEEN. 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. 

PHILLY. The peelers is fearing him, and if you'd that lad in the house 
there isn't one of them would come smelling around if the dogs itself were 
lapping poteen from the dung-pit of the yard. 

JIMMY. Bravery's a treasure in a lonesome place, and a lad would kill his 
father, I'm thinking, would face a foxy divil with a pitchpike on the flags 
of hell. 

PEGEEN. It's the truth they're saying, and if I'd that lad in the house, I 
wouldn't be fearing the loosed kharki cut-throats, or the walking dead. 

CHRISTY (swelling with surprise and triumph). Well, glory be to God! 

MICHAEL (with deference). 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. 

SHAWN (coming forwerd uneasily). That'd be a queer kind to bring into a 
decent, quiet household with the like of Pegeen Mike. 

PEGEEN (very sharply). Will you whisht? Who's speaking to you? 

SHAWN (retreating). A bloody-handed murderer the like of... 

PEGEEN (snapping at him). Whisht, I am saying; we'll take no fooling from 
your like at all. (To Christy with a honeyed voice.) 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. 

CHRISTY (overcome with wonder). And I'd be safe this place from the 
searching law? 

MICHAEL. You would, surely. If they're not fearing you, itself, the peelers 
in this place is decent, drouthy poor fellows, wouldn't touch a cur dog and 
not giving warning in the dead of night. 

PEGEEN (very kindly and persuasively). 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. 

CHRISTY (looking round with satisfaction). It's a nice room, and if it's 
not humbugging me you are, I'm thinking that I'll surely stay. 

JIMMY (jumps up). 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. 

MICHAEL (going to the door with men). And begging your pardon, mister, what 
name will we call you, for we'd like to know? 

CHRISTY. Christopher Mahon.

MICHAEL. Well, God bless you, Christy, and a good rest till we meet again 
when the sun'll be rising to the noon of day. 

CHRISTY. God bless you all. 

MEN. God bless you. 

They go out, except Shawn, who lingers at door. 

SHAWN (to Pegeen). Are you wanting me to stop along with you and keep you 
from harm? 

PEGEEN (gruffly). Didn't you say you were fearing Father Reilly? 

SHAWN. There'd be no harm staying now, I'm thinking, and himself in it too. 

PEGEEN. You wouldn't stay when there was need for you, and let you step off 
nimble this time when there's none. 

SHAWN. Didn't I say it was Father Reilly...

PEGEEN. Go on, then, to Father Reilly (in a jeering tone), and let him put 
you in the holy brotherhoods, and leave that lad to me. 

SHAWN. If I meet the Widow Quin... 

PEGEEN. Go on, I'm saying, and don't be waking this place with your noise. 
(She hustles him out and bolts door.) That lad would wear the spirits from 
the saints of peace. (Bustles about, then takes off her apron and pins it 
up in the window as a blind, Christy watching her timidly. Then she comes 
to him and speaks with bland good-humour.) Let you stretch out now by the 
fire, young fellow. You should be destroyed travelling. 

CHRISTY (shyly again, drawing off his boots). I'm tired surely, walking 
wild eleven days, and waking fearful in the night. 

He holds up one of his feet, feeling his blisters, and looking at them with 
compassion. 

PEGEEN (standing beside him, watching him with delight). 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. 

CHRISTY (with pride). We were great, surely, with wide and windy acres of 
rich Munster land. 

PEGEEN. Wasn't I telling you, and you a fine, handsome young fellow with a 
noble brow? 

CHRISTY (with a flash of delighted surprise). Is it me?

SHAWN. Aye. Did you never hear that from the young girls where you come 
from in the west or south? 

CHRISTY (with venom). I did not, then. Oh, they're bloody liars in the 
naked parish where I grew a man. 

PEGEEN. 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. 

CHRISTY. 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. 

PEGEEN (filling a sack with straw). You ve said the like of that, maybe, in 
every cot and cabin where you've met a young girl on your way. 

CHRISTY (going over to her, gradually raising his voice). I've said it 
nowhere till this night, I'm telling you; for I've seen none the like of 
you the eleven long days I am walking the world, looking over a low ditch 
or a high ditch on my north or south, into stony, scattered fields, or 
scribes of bog, where you'd see young, limber girls, and fine, prancing 
women making laughter with the men. 

PEGEEN. If you weren't destroyed travelling, you'd have as much talk and 
streeleen, I'm thinking, 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. 

CHRISTY (drawing a little nearer to her). You've a power of rings, God 
bless you, and would there be any offence if I was asking are you single 
now? 

PEGEEN. What would I want wedding so young? 

CHRISTY (with relief). We're alike, so. 

PEGEEN (she puts sack on settle and beats if up). 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. 

CHRISTY (expanding with delight at the first confidential talk he has ever 
had with a woman). We had not then. It was a hard woman was come over the 
hill; and if he was always a crusty kind when he'd a hard woman setting him 
on, not the divil himself or his four fathers could put up with him at all. 

PEGEEN (with curiosity). And isn't it a great wonder that one wasn't 
fearing you? 

CHRISTY (very confidenfially). 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. 

PEGEEN (getting a quilt out of cupboard and putting it on the sack). 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. 

CHRISTY (shaking his head, with simplicity). 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. (He sits down at fire.) 

PEGEEN (with disappointment). And I thinking you should have been living 
the like of a king of Norway or the eastern world. 

She comes and sits beside him after placing bread and mug of milk on the 
table.

CHRISTY (laughing piteously). 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 divil to poach, God forgive me, 
(very naively) and I near got six months for going with a dung fork and 
stabbing a fish. 

PEGEEN. And it's that you'd call sport, is it, to be abroad in the darkness 
with yourself alone. 

CHRISTY. I did, God help me, and there I'd be as happv 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 
furze. Then, when I'd my full share, I'd come 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'd be raging all times, the while he was waking, like a gaudy officer 
you'd hear cursing and damning and swearing oaths.

SHAWN. Providence and Mercy, spare us all!

CHRISTY. 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, and shying clods 
against the visage of the stars till he'd put the fear of death into the 
banbhs and the screeching sows. 

PEGEEN. I'd be well-nigh afeard of that lad myself, I'm thinking. And there 
was no one in it but the two of you alone? 

CHRISTY. The divil a one, though he'd 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, and they rousing up to let a cough 
or sneeze, maybe, in the deadness of the night. 

PEGEEN (nodding her head). Well, you should have been a queer lot. I never 
cursed my father the like of that, though I'm twenty and more years of age. 

CHRISTY. Then you'd have cursed mine, I'm telling you, and he a man never 
gave peace to any, saving when he'd get two months or three, or be locked 
in the asylums for battering peelers or assaulting men (with depression), 
the way it was a bitter life he led me till I did up a Tuesday and halve 
his skull. 

PEGEEN (putting her hand on his shoulder). 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 should have your good share of the earth. 

CHRISTY. It's time surely, and I a seemly fellow with great strength in me 
and bravery of... (Some one knocks). 

CHRISTY (clinging to Pegeen). Oh, glory! it's late for knocking, and this 
last while I'm in terror of the peelers, and the walking dead. (Knocking 
again). 

PEGEEN. Who's there? 

VOICE (outside). Me. 

PEGEEN. Who's me? 

VOICE. The Widow Quin. 

PEGEEN (jumping up and giving him the bread and milk). 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. 

He takes bread and sits shyly with his back to the door.
PEGEEN (opening door, with temper). What ails you, or what is it you're 
wanting at this hour of the night? 

WIDOW QUIN (coming in a step and peering at Christy). 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. 

PEGEEN (pointing to Christy). 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. 

WIDOW QUIN (coming forward). I'll not see them again, for I've their word 
to lead that lad forward for to lodge with me. 

PEGEEN (in blank amazement). This night is it? 

WIDOW QUIN (going over). This night. "It isn't fitting," says the 
priesteen, "to have his likeness lodging with an orphaned girl." (To 
Christy.) God save you, mister! 

CHRISTY (shyly). God save you kindly! 

WIDOW QUIN (looking at him with half-amused curiosity). 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. 

CHRISTY (doubtf ully). It should, maybe. 

WIDOW QUIN. 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. 

PEGEEN (at counter, washing glasses). There's talking 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. 

WIDOW QUIN (peaceably). 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. 

CHRISTY (innocently). Did you kill your father?

PEGEEN (contemptulously). 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. 

She crosses to Christy's left.

WIDOW QUIN (with good-humour). 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 helterskeltering after any 
man would let you a wink upon the road. 

PEGEEN (breaking out into wild rage). And you'll say that, Widow Quin, and 
you gasping with the rage you had racing the hill beyond to look on his 
face. 

WIDOW QUIN (laughing derisively). Me, is it? Well, Father Reilly has 
cuteness to divide you now. (She pulls Christy up.) 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. 

PEGEEN (seizing his arm). 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. 

WIDOW QUIN. It'd be a crazy pot-boy'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. 

PEGEEN. Wait till morning, Christy Mahon. Wait till you lay eyes on her 
leaky thatch is growing more pasture for her buck goat than her square of 
fields, and she without a tramp itself to keep in order her place at all. 

WIDOW QUIN. 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 thatching, or mowing, or shearing a sheep. 

PEGEEN (with noisy scorn). It's true the Lord God formed you to contrive 
indeed. Doesn't the world know you reared a black ram at your own breast, 
so that the Lord Bishop of Connaught felt the elements of a Christian, and 
he eating it after in a kidney stew? Doesn't the world know you've been 
seen shaving the foxy skipper from France for a threepenny bit and a sop of 
grass tobacco would wring the liver from a mountain goat you'd meet leaping 
the hills? 

WIDOW QUIN (with amusement). Do you hear her now, young fellow? Do you hear 
the way she'll be rating at your own self when a week is by? 

PEGEEN (to Christy). Don't heed her. Tell her to go on into her pigsty and 
not plague us here. 

WIDOW QUIN. I'm going; but he'll come with me. 

PEGEEN (shaking him). Are you dumb, young fellow? 

CHRISTY (timidly to Widow Quin). God increase you; but I'm pot-boy in this 
place, and it's here I liefer stay. 

PEGEEN (triumphantly). Now you have heard him, and go on from this. 

WIDOW QUIN (looking round the room). 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. 

PEGEEN (short and fiercely). Faith, I won t. Quit off or I will send you 
now. 

WIDOW QUIN (gathering her shawl up). Well, it's a terror to be aged a 
score. (To Christy.) 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. 

CHRISTY (going to Pegeen as she bolts door). What's that she's after 
saying? 

PEGEEN. 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. 

CHRISTY. And you're not wedding him at all? 

PEGEEN. I wouldn't wed him if a bishop came walking for to join us here. 

CHRISTY. That God in glory may be thanked for that. 

PEGEEN. There's your bed now. I've put a quilt upon you I'm after quilting 
a while since with my own two hands, and you'd best 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. 

CHRISTY (as she goes to inner room). May God and Mary and St. Patrick bless 
you and reward you for your kindly talk. (She shuts fhe door behind her. He 
settles his bed slowly, feeling the quilt with immense satisfaction). 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. 

CURTAIN.


Act 2

Scene as before.
Brilliant morning light. Christy, looking bright and cheerful, is cleaning 
a girl's boots. 

CHRISTY (to himself, counting jugs on dresser). Half a hundred beyond. Ten 
there. A score that's above. Eighty jugs. Six cups and a broken one. Two 
plates. A power of glasses. Bottles, a schoolmaster'd be hard set to count, 
and enough in them, I'm thinking, to drunken all the wealth and wisdom of 
the county Clare. (He puts down the boot carefully.) There's her boots now, 
nice and decent for her evening use, and isn't it grand brushes she has? 
(He puts them down and goes by degrees to the looking-glass.) 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 glass, or rinsing out a shiny tumbler for a decent man. (He takes 
the looking-glass from the wall and puts it on the back of a chair; then 
sits down in front of it and begins washing his face.) Didn't I know 
rightly I was handsome, though it was the divil'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. (He starts.) Is she coming again? (He looks out.) Stranger girls. God 
help me, where'll I hide myself away and my long neck naked to the world? 
(He looks out.) I'd best go to the room maybe till I'm dressed again. 

He gathers up his coat and the looking-glass, and runs into the inner room. 
The door is pushed open, and Susan Brady looks in, and knocks on door. 

SUSAN. There's nobody in it. (Knocks again.)

NELLY (pushing her in and following her, with Honor Blake and Sara Tansey.) 
It'd be early for them both to be out walking the hill. 

SUSAN. I'm thinking Shawn Keogh was making game of us, and there's no such 
man in it at all.

HONOR (pointing to straw and quilt). 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 a man killed his father, and we after rising 
early and destroying ourselves running fast on the hill. 

NELLY. Are you thinking them's his boots? 

SARA (taking them up). 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? 

SUSAN. IS that blood there, Sara Tansey? 

SARA (smelling it.) That's bog water, I'm thinking; but it's his own they 
are, surely, for I never seen the like of them for whitey mud, and red mud, 
and turf on them, and the fine sands of the sea. That man's been walking, 
I'm telling you. 

She goes down right, putting on one of his boots. 

SUSAN (going to window). Maybe he's stolen off to Belmullet with the boots 
of Michael James, and you'd have a right so to follow after him, Sara 
Tansey, and you the one yoked the ass-cart and drove ten miles to set your 
eyes on the man bit the yellow lady's nostril on the northern shore. (She 
looks out).

SARA (running to window, with one boot on). Don't be talking, and we fooled 
today. (Putting on the other boot.) There's a pair do fit me well, and I'll 
be keeping them for walking to the priest, when you'd be ashamed this 
place, going up winter and summer with nothing worth while to confess at 
all. 

HONOR (who has been listening at door). Whisht! there's someone inside the 
room. (She pushes door a chink open.) It's a man. 

Sara kicks off boots and puts them where they were.
 They all stand in a line looking through chink. 

SARA. I'll call him. Mister! Mister! (He puts in his head.) Is Pegeen 
within? 

CHRISTY (coming in as meek as a mouse, with the looking-glass held behind 
his back). She's above on the cnuceen, seeking the nanny goats, the way 
she'd have a sup of goats' milk for to colour my tea. 

SARA. And asking your pardon, is it you's the man killed his father?

CHRISTY (sidling toward the nail where the glass was hanging.) I am, God 
help me! 

SARA (taking eggs she has brought). Then my thousand welcomes to you, and 
I've run up with a brace of duck's eggs for your food today. 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. 

CHRISTY (coming forward shyly, and holding out his left hand.) They're a 
great and weighty size. 

SUSAN. And I run up with a pat of butter, for it'd be a poor thing to have 
you eating your spuds dry, and you after running a great way since you did 
destroy your da. 

CHRISTY. Thank you kindly. 

HONOR. And I brought you a little cut of a cake, for you should have a thin 
stomach on you, and you that length walking the world. 

NELLY. And I brought you a little laying pullet - boiled and all she is - 
was crushed at the fall of night by the curate's car. Feel the fat of that 
breast, mister. 

CHRISTY. It's bursting, surely. 

He feels it with the back of his hand, in which he holds the presents. 

SARA. Will you pinch it? Is your right hand too sacred for to use at all? 
(She slips round behind him.) It's a glass he has. Well, I never seen to 
this day a man with a looking-glass held to his back. Them that kills their 
fathers is a vain lot surely. 

Girls giggle.

CHRISTY (smiling innocently and piling presents on glass). I'm very 
thankful to you all today... 

WIDOW QUIN (coming in quickly, at door). Sara Tansey, Susan Brady, Honor 
Blake! What in glory has you here at this hour of day? 

GIRLS (giggling). That's the man killed his father. 

WIDOW QUIN (coming to them). 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. 

SARA (exuberantly). That's right, Widow Quin. I'll bet my dowry that he'll 
lick the world. 

WIDOW QUIN. If you will, you'd have a right to have him fresh and nourished 
in place of nursing a feast. (Taking presents.) Are you fasting or fed, 
young fellow? 

CHRISTY. Fasting, if you please. 

WIDOW QUIN (loudly). Well, you're the lot. Stir up now and give him his 
breakfast. (To Christy.) Come here to me (she puts him on bench beside her 
while the girls make tea and get his breakfast), and let you tell us your 
story before Pegeen will come, in place of grinning your ears off like the 
moon of May. 

CHRISTY (beginning to be pleased). It's a long story; you'd be destroyed 
listening. 

WIDOW QUIN. 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? 

CHRISTY (shy but flattered). It was not. We were digging spuds in his cold, 
sloping, stony, divil's patch of a field. 

WIDOW QUIN. And you went asking money of him, or making talk of getting a 
wife would drive him from his farm? 

CHRISTY. 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." 

WIDOW QUIN. And what kind was she? 

CHRISTY (with horror). A walking terror from beyond the hills, and she two 
score and five years, and two hundredweights 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. 

GIRLS (clustering round him, serving him). Glory be. 

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

She takes a bit of the chicken.

CHRISTY (eating with growing satisfaction). He was letting on I was wanting 
a protector from 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. 

WIDOW QUIN. There's maybe worse than a dry hearth and a widow woman and 
your glass at night. So you hit him then? 

CHRISTY (getting almost excited). 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."

WIDOW QUIN (teasingly). That one should be right company. 

SARA (eagerly). Don't mind her. Did you kill him then? 

CHRISTY. "She's too good for the like of you," says he, "and go on now or 
I'll flatten you out like a crawling beast has passed under a dray." "You 
will not if I can help it," says I. "Go on," says he, "or I'll have the 
divil making garters of your limbs tonight." "You will not if I can help 
it," says I. 

He sits up brandishing his mug.

SARA. You were right surely. 

CHRISTY (impressively). 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. 

SUSAN. That's a grand story. 

HONOR. He tells it lovely. 

CHRISTY (flattered and confident, waving bone). 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. 

He raises the chicken bone to his Adam's apple. 

GIRLS (together). Well, you're a marvel! Oh, God bless you! You're the lad, 
surely! 

SUSAN. 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 dread her here. Lift him on her knee, Sara Tansey. 

WIDOW QUIN. Don't tease him. 

SARA (going over to dresser and counter very quickly, and getting two 
glasses and porter). You're heroes, surely, and let you drink a supeen with 
your arms linked like the outlandish lovers in the sailor's song. (She 
links their arms and gives them the glasses.) There now. Drink a health to 
the wonders of the western world, the pirates, preachers, poteen-makers, 
with the jobbing jockies; parching peelers, and them juries fill their 
stomachs selling judgments of the English law. 

Brandishing the bottle.

WIDOW QUIN. That's a right toast, Sara Tansey. Now, Christy. 

They drink with their arms linked, he drinking with his left hand, she with 
her right. As they are drinking, Pegeen Mike comes in with a milk-can and 
stands aghast. They all spring away from Christy. He goes down left. Widow 
Quin remains seated. 

PEGEEN (angrily, to Sara). What is it you're wanting? 

SARA (twisting her apron). An ounce of tobacco. 

PEGEEN. Have you tuppence? 

SARA. I've forgotten my purse. 

PEGEEN. Then you'd best be getting it and not be fooling us here. (To the 
widow Quin, with more elaborate scorn.) And what is it you're wanting, 
Widow Quin? 

WIDOW QUIN (insolently). A penn'orth of starch. 

PEGEEN (breaking out). And you without a white shift or a shirt in your 
whole family since the drying of the flood. I've no starch for the like of 
you, and let you walk on now to Killamuck. 

WIDOW QUIN (turning to Christy, as she goes out with the girls). 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. (They go out.) 

PEGEEN (imperiously). Fling out that rubbish and put them cups away. 
(Christy tidies away in great haste.) Shove in the bench by the wall. (he 
does so.) And hang that glass on the nail. What disturbed it at all? 

CHRISTY (very meekly). I was making myself decent only, and this a fine 
country for young lovely girls. 

PEGEEN (sharply). Whisht your talking of girls. (Goes to counter on right.) 

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

PEGEEN. Whisht, I'm saying. 

CHRISTY (looks at her face for a moment with great misgivings, then as a 
last efort takes up a loy, and goes towards her, with feigned assurance). 
It was with a loy the like of that I killed my father. 

PEGEEN (still sharply). You ve told me that story six times since the dawn 
of day. 

CHRISTY (reproachfully). It's a queer thing you wouldn't care to be hearing 
it and them girls after walking four miles to be listening to me now.

SHAWN (turning round astonished). Four miles? 

CHRISTY (apologetically). Didn't himself say there were only bona fides 
living in the place? 

PEGEEN. It's bona fides by the road they are, but 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 postboy does have in his 
bag. (with meaning and emphasis.) For there was great news this day, 
Christopher Mahon. 

She goes into room on left.

CHRISTY (suspiciously). Is it news of my murder? 

PEGEEN (inside). Murder, indeed. 

CHRISTY (loudly). A murdered da? 

PEGEEN (coming in again and crossing right). There was not, but a story 
filled half a page of the hanging of a man. Ah, that should be a fearful 
end, young fellow, and it worst of all for a man destroyed his da; for the 
like of him would get small mercies, 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 pouring any frish-frash 
from a cup. 

CHRISTY (very miserably). 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. 

PEGEEN (severely). 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. 

CHRISTY (with terror). And you're thinking they'd tell? 

PEGEEN (with mock sympathy). Who knows, God help you? 

CHRISTY (loudly). What joy would they have to bring hanging to the likes of 
me? 

PEGEEN. 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 great anguish, getting your death. 

CHRISTY (getting his boots and putting them on). 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. 

PEGEEN (beginning to play with him). It would, maybe, for I've heard the 
Circuit Judges this place is a heartless crew. 

CHRISTY (bitterly). It's more than Judges this place is a heartless crew. 
(Looking up at her.) And isn't it a poor thing to be starting again, and I 
a lonesome fellow will be looking out on women and girls the way the needy 
fallen spirits do be looking on the Lord? 

PEGEEN. What call have you to be that lonesome when there's poor girls 
walking Mayo in their thousands now? 

CHRISTY (grimly). 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 
noising before you and a dog noising 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. 

PEGEEN. I'm thinking you're an odd man, Christy Mahon. The oddest walking 
fellow I ever set my eyes on to this hour today. 

CHRISTY. What would any be but odd men and they living lonesome in the 
world? 

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

CHRISTY (with infinite admiration). How would 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. 

PEGEEN. I'm hard set to know what way a coaxing fellow the like of yourself 
should be lonesome either. 

CHRISTY. Coaxing. 

PEGEEN. 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. 

CHRISTY. 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. 

Going to door.

SHAWN (puzzled by his talk). Well, it's a story I'm not understanding at 
all why you'd be worse than another, Christy Mahon, and you a fine lad with 
the great savagery to destroy your da. 

CHRISTY. 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'll not be waking near you another dawn of the year till the two of us 
do arise to hope or judgment with the saints of God, and now I'd best be 
going with my wattle in my hand, for hanging is a poor thing (turning to 
go), and it's little welcome only is left me in this house today. 

PEGEEN (sharply). Christy. (He turns round.) Come here to me. (He goes 
towards her.) 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. 

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

PEGEEN (quite kindly at last). 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. (Getting up and going over to the counter.) They've likely not 
found the body. You're safe so with ourselves. 

CHRISTY (astonished, slowly). It's making game of me you were (following 
her with fearful joy), and I can stay so, working at your side, and I not 
lonesome from this mortal day. 

PEGEEN. What's to hinder you staying, except the widow woman or the young 
girls would inveigle you off? 

CHRISTY (with rapture). And I'll have your words from this day filling my 
ears, 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. 

PEGEEN (kindly, but a little embarrassed). I'm thinking you'll be a loyal 
young lad to have working around, 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. 

Shawn Keogh runs in carrying a cleeve on his back, followed by the widow 
Quin. 

SHAWN (to Pegeen). I was passing below, and I seen your mountainy sheep 
eating cabbages in Jimmy's field. Run up or they'll be bursting, surely. 

PEGEEN. Oh, God mend them! 

She puts a shawl over her head and runs out. 

CHRISTY (looking from one to the other. Still in high spirits). I'd best go 
to her aid maybe. I'm handy with ewes. 

WIDOW QUIN (closing the door). She can do that much, and there is Shaneen 
has long speeches for to tell you now. 

She sits down with an amused smile. 

SHAWN (taking something from his pocket and offering it to Christy). Do you 
see that, mister? 

CHRISTY (looking at it). The half of a ticket to the Western States! 

SHAWN (trembling with anxiety). I'll give it to you and my new hat (pulling 
it out of hamper); and my breeches with the double seat (pulling it out); 
and my new coat is woven from the blackest shearings for three miles around 
(giving him the coat); 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. 

CHRISTY (with a new arrogance). And for what is it you're wanting to get 
shut of me?

SHAWN (looking to the Widow for help). 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. 

CHRISTY (almost pugnaciously). And you'd be using bribery for to banish me? 

SHAWN (in an imploring voice). Let you not take it badly, mister honey; 
isn't beyond the best place for you, where you'll have golden chains and 
shiny coats and you riding upon hunters with the ladies of the land. 

He makes an eager sign to the widow Quin to come to help him. 

WIDOW QUIN (coming over). 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.

Christy beams with delight. 

SHAWN (in terrifed earnest). She wouldn't suit you, and she with the 
divil's own temper the way you'd be strangling one another in a score of 
days. (He makes the movement of strangling with his hands.) It's the like 
of me only that she's fit for; a quiet simple fellow wouldn't raise a hand 
upon her if she scratched itself. 

WIDOW QUIN (putting Shawn's hat on Christy). Fit them clothes on you 
anyhow, young fellow, and he'd maybe loan them to you for the sports. 
(Pushing him towards inner door.) Fit them on and you can give your answer 
when you have them tried. 

CHRISTY (beaming, delighted with the clothes). I will then. I'd like 
herself to see me in them tweeds and hat. 

He goes into room and shuts the door.

SHAWN (in great anxiety). He'd like herself to see them. He'll not leave 
us, Widow Quin. He's a score of divils in him the way it's well nigh 
certain he will wed Pegeen. 

WIDOW QUIN (jeeringly). It's true all girls are fond of courage and do hate 
the like of you. 

SHAWN (walking about in desperation). Oh, Widow Quin, what'll I be doing 
now? I'd inform again him, but he'd burst from Kilmainham 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 into 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. (Coming up to her.) Oh, 
Widow Quin, will you find me some contrivance when I've promised you a ewe? 

WIDOW QUIN. A ewe's a small thing, but what would you give me if I did wed 
him and did save you so? 

SHAWN (with astonishment). You? 

WIDOW QUIN. Aye. Would you give me the red cow you have and the mountainy 
ram, and the right of way across your rye path, and a load of dung at 
Michaelmas, and turbary upon the western hill? 

SHAWN (radiant with hope). 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 on 
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. I'd give you... 

WIDOW QUIN. That'll do, so, and let you whisht, for he's coming now again. 

Christy comes in very natty in the new clothes. Widow Quin goes to him 
admiringly.

WIDOW QUIN. 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. 

CHRISTY (as proud as a peacock). I'm not going. If this is a poor place 
itself, I'll make myself contented to be lodging here. 

Widow Quin makes a sign to Shawn to leave them. 

SHAWN. Well, I'm going measuring the racecourse while the tide is low, so 
I'll leave you the garments and my blessing for the sports today. God bless 
you! 

He wriggles out.

WIDOW QUIN (admiring Christy). Well, you're mighty spruce, young fellow. 
Sit down now while you're quiet till you talk with me. 

CHRISTY (swaggering). I'm going abroad on the hillside for to seek Pegeen. 

WIDOW QUIN. 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. 

CHRISTY. From this out I'll have no want of company when all sorts is 
bringing me their food and clothing (he swaggers to the door, tightening 
his belt), the way they'd set their eyes upon a gallant orphan cleft his 
father with one blow to the breeches belt. (He opens door, then staggers 
back.) Saints of glory! Holy angels from the throne of light! 

WIDOW Quin (going over). What ails you? 

CHRISTY. It's the walking spirit of my murdered da! 

WIDOW QUIN (looking out). Is it that tramper? 

CHRISTY (wildly). Where'll I hide my poor body from that ghost of hell? 

The door is pushed open, and old Mahon appears on threshold.
Christy darts in behind door. 

WIDOW QUIN (in great amusement). God save you, my poor man. 

MAHON (gruffly). Did you see a young lad passing this way in the early 
morning or the fall of night? 

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

MAHON. Did you see the young lad? 

WIDOW QUIN (stiffly). What kind was he? 

MAHON. An ugly young streeler with a murderous gob on him, and a little 
switch in his hand. I met a tramper seen him coming this way at the fall of 
night.

WIDOW QUIN. There's harvest hundreds do be passing these days for the Sligo 
boat. For what is it you're wanting him, my poor man? 

MAHON. I want to destroy him for breaking the head on me with the clout of 
a loy. (He takes off a big hat, and shows his head in a mass of bandages 
and plaster, with some pride.) 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? 

WIDOW QUIN (taking his head in both hands and examining it with extreme 
delight). That was a great blow. And who hit you? A robber maybe? 


MAHON. It was my own son hit me, and he the divil a robber, or anything 
else, but a dirty, stuttering lout. 

WIDOW QUIN (letting go his skull and wiping her hands in her apron). 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. 

MAHON. Is it me? 

WIDOW QUIN (amusing herself). Aye. And isn't it a great shame when the old 
and hardened do torment the young? 

MAHON (raging). Torment him is it? And I after holding out with the 
patience of a martyred saint till there's nothing but destruction on, and 
I'm driven out in my old age with none to aid me. 

WIDOW QUIN (greatly amused). It's a sacred wonder the way that wickedness 
will spoil a man. 

MAHON. My wickedness, 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. 

WIDOW QUIN. Not working at all?

MAHON. The divil 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 a glass we had hung on the wall. 

WIDOW QUIN (looking at Christy). What way was he so foolish? It was running 
wild after the girls maybe?

MAHON (with a shout of derision). 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! 

WIDOW QUIN. It was drink maybe? 

MAHON. And he a poor fellow would get drunk on the smell of a pint. He'd a 
queer rotten stomach, I'm telling you, and when I gave him three pulls from 
my pipe a while since, he was taken with contortions till I had to send him 
in the ass-cart to the females' nurse. 

WIDOW QUIN (clasping her hands). Well, I never, till this day, heard tell 
of a man the like of that! 

MAHON. I'd take a mighty oath you didn't, surely, and wasn't he the 
laughing joke of every female woman where four baronies meet, the way the 
girls would stop their weeding if they seen him coming the road to let a 
roar at him, and call him the looney of Mahon's. 

WIDOW QUIN. I'd give the world and all to see the like of him. What kind 
was he? 

MAHON. A small, low fellow. 

WIDOW QUIN. And dark? 

MAHON. Dark and dirty. 

WIDOW QUIN (considering). I'm thinking I seen him. 

MAHON (eagerly). An ugly young blackguard. 

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

MAHON. What way is he fled? 

WIDOW QUIN. Gone over the hills to catch a coasting steamer to the north or 
south. 

MAHON. Could I pull up on him now? 

WIDOW QUIN. If you'll cross the sands below where the tide is out, you'll 
be in it as soon as himself, for he had to go round ten miles by the top of 
the bay. (She points to the door.) Strike down by the head beyond and then 
follow on the roadway to the north and east.

Mahon goes abruptly.

WIDOW QUIN (shouting after him). Let you give him a good vengeance when you 
come up with him, but don't put yourself in the power of the law, for it'd 
be a poor thing to see a judge in his black cap reading out his sentence on 
a civil warrior the like of you. (She swings the door to and looks at 
Christy, who is cowering in terror, for a moment, then she bursts into a 
laugh.) Well, you're the walking Playboy of the Western World, and that's 
the poor man you had divided to his breeches belt. 

CHRISTY (looking out; then, to her). What'll Pegeen say when she hears that 
story? What'll she be saying to me now? 

WIDOW QUIN. 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 a story you destroyed your da. 

CHRISTY (turning to the door, nearly speechless with rage, half to 
himself). To be letting on he was dead, and coming back to his life, and 
following after me 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... 

WIDOW QUIN (more soberly). There's talking for a man's one only son. 

CHRISTY (breaking out). His one son, is it? May I meet him with one tooth 
and it aching, and one eye to be seeing seven and seventy divils in the 
twists of the road, and one old timber leg on him to limp into the scalding 
grave. (Looking out.) There he is now crossing the strands, and that the 
Lord God would send a high wave to wash him from the world. 

WIDOW QUIN (scandalised). Have you no shame? (putting her hand on his 
shoulder and turning him round.) What ails you? Near crying, is it? 

CHRISTY (in despair and grief). 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 speaking hard words to me, like an old woman with a 
spavindy ass she'd have, urging on a hill. 

WIDOW QUIN. 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. 

CHRISTY (impatiently). It's her like is fitted to be handling merchandise 
in the heavens above, and what'll I be doing now, I ask you, and I a kind 
of wonder was jilted by the heavens when a day was by. 

There is a distant noise of girls' voices. 
Widow Quin looks from window and comes to him, hurriedly. 

WIDOW QUIN. 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 stitching 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. 

CHRISTY (interested). You're like me, so. 

WIDOW QUIN. 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. 

CHRISTY. And what would I be doing if I left Pegeen? 

WIDOW QUIN. I've nice jobs you could be doing - gathering shells to make a 
white-wash for our hut within, building up a little goose-house, or 
stretching a new skin on an old curagh 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... 

VOICES (outside, calling far away). Christy! Christy Mahon! Christy! 

CHRISTY. Is it Pegeen Mike? 

WIDOW QUIN. 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? 

CHRISTY. Aid me for to win Pegeen. It's herself only that I'm seeking now. 
(Widow Quin gets up and goes to window.) Aid me for to win her, and I'll be 
asking God to stretch a hand to you 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. 

WIDOW QUIN. There's praying! 

VOICES (nearer). Christy! Christy Mahon! 

CHRISTY (with agitation). They're coming. Will you swear to aid and save 
me, for the love of Christ?

WIDOW QUIN (looks at him for a moment). If I aid you, will you swear to 
give me a right of way I want, and a mountainy ram, and a load of dung at 
Michaelmas, the time that you'll be master here? 

CHRISTY. I will, by the elements and stars of night. 

WIDOW QUIN. Then we'll not say a word of the old fellow, the way Pegeen 
won't know your story till the end of time. 

CHRISTY. And if he chances to return again? 

WIDOW QUIN. We'll swear he's a maniac and not your da. I could take an oath 
I seen him raving on the sands today. 

Girls run in.

SUSAN. Come on to the sports below. Pegeen says you're to come. 

SARA. The lepping's beginning, and we've a jockey's suit to fit upon you 
for the mule race on the sands below. 

HONOR. Come on, will you? 

CHRISTY. I will then if Pegeen's beyond. 

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

CHRISTY. Then I'll be going to her now.

He runs out, followed by the girls.

WIDOW QUIN. Well, if the worst comes 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, has 
buried her children and destroyed her man.

She goes out. 


CURTAIN.


Act 3

Scene as before.
Later in the day. Jimmy comes in, slightly drunk. 

JIMMY (calls). Pegeen! (Crosses to inner door.) Pegeen Mike! (Comes back 
again into the room.) Pegeen! (Philly comes in in the same state - To 
Philly.) Did you see herself? 

PHILLY. I did not; but I sent Shawn Keogh with the ass-cart for to bear him 
home. (Trying cupboards, which are locked.) Well, isn't he a nasty man to 
get into such staggers at a morning wake; and isn't herself the divil's 
daughter for locking, and she so fussy after that young gaffer, you might 
take your death with drouth and none to heed you? 

JIMMY. It's little wonder she'd be fussy, and he after bringing bankrupt 
ruin on the roulette man, and the trick-o'-the-loop man, and breaking the 
nose of the cockshot-man, and winning all in the sports below, racing, 
lepping, dancing, and the Lord knows what! He's right luck, I'm telling 
you.

PHILLY. If he has, he'll be rightly hobbled yet, and he not able to say ten 
words without making a brag of the way he killed his father, and the great 
blow he hit with the loy. 

JIMMY. A man can't hang by his own informing, and his father should be 
rotten by now. 

Old Mahon passes window slowly.

PHILLY. Supposing a man's digging spuds in that field with a long spade, 
and supposing he flings up the two halves of that skull, what'll be said 
then in the papers and the courts of law? 

JIMMY. They'd say it was an old Dane, maybe, was drowned in the flood. (Old 
Mahon comes in and sits down near door listening.) Did you never hear tell 
of the skulls they have in the city of Dublin, ranged out like blue jugs in 
a cabin of Connaught? 

PHILLY. And you believe that? 

JIMMY (pugnaciously). Didn't a lad see them and he after coming from 
harvesting in the Liverpool boat? "They have them there," says he, "making 
a show of the great people there was one time walking the world. White 
skulls and black skulls and yellow skulls, and some with full teeth, and 
some haven't only but one." 

PHILLY. It was no lie, maybe, for when I was a young lad there was a 
graveyard beyond the house with the remnants of a man who had thighs as 
long as your arm. He was a horrid man, I'm telling you, and there was many 
a fine Sunday I'd put him together for fun, and he with shiny bones, you 
wouldn't meet the like of these days in the cities of the world. 

MAHON (getting up). You wouldn't, is it? Lay your eyes on that skull, and 
tell me where and when there was another the like of it, is splintered only 
from the blow of a loy. 

PHILLY. Glory be to God! And who hit you at all? 

MAHON (triumphantly). It was my own son hit me. Would you believe that? 

JIMMY. Well, there's wonders hidden in the heart of man! 

PHILLY (suspiciously). And what way was it done? 

MAHON (wandering about the room). I'm after walking hundreds and long 
scores of miles, winning clean beds and the fill of my belly four times in 
the day, and I doing nothing but telling stories of that naked truth. (He 
comes to them a little aggressively.) Give me a supeen and I'll tell you 
now. 


Widow Quin comes in and stands aghast behind him.
He is facing Jimmy and Philly, who are on the left. 

JIMMY. Ask herself beyond. She's the stuff hidden in her shawl. 

WIDOW QUIN (coming to Mahon quickly). You here, is it? You didn't go far at 
all? 

MAHON. I seen the coasting steamer passing, and I got a drouth upon me and 
a cramping leg, so I said, "The divil go along with him," and turned again. 
(Looking under her shawl.) And let you give me a supeen, for I'm destroyed 
travelling since Tuesday was a week. 

WIDOW QUIN (getting a glass, in a cajoling tone). Sit down then by the fire 
and take your ease for a space. You've a right to be destroyed indeed, with 
your walking, and fighting, and facing the sun (giving him poteen from a 
stone jar she has brought in). There now is a drink for you, and may it be 
to your happiness and length of life. 

MAHON (taking glass greedily, and sitting down by fire). God increase you!

WIDOW QUIN (taking men to the right stealthily). Do you know what? That 
man's raving from his wound today, for I met him a while since telling a 
rambling tale of a tinker had him destroyed. Then he heard of Christy's 
deed, and he up and says it was his son had cracked his skull. Oh, isn't 
madness a fright, for he'll go killing someone yet, and he thinking it's 
the man has struck him so? 

JIMMY (entirely convinced). It's a fright surely. I knew a party was kicked 
in the head by a red mare, and he went killing horses a great while, till 
he eat the insides of a clock and died after. 

PHILLY (with suspicion). Did he see Christy? 

WIDOW QUIN. He didn't. (with a warning gesture.) Let you not be putting him 
in mind of him, or you'll be likely summoned if there's murder done. 
(Looking round at Mahon.) Whisht! He's listening. Wait now till you hear me 
taking him easy and unravelling all. (She goes to Mahon.) And what way are 
you feeling, mister? Are you in contentment now? 

MAHON (slightly emotional from his drink). I'm poorly only, for it's a hard 
story the way I'm left today, when it was I did tend him from his hour of 
birth, and he a dunce never reached his second book, the way he'd come from 
school, many's the day, with his legs lamed under him, and he blackened 
with his beatings like a tinker's ass. It's a hard story, I'm saying, the 
way some do have their next and nighest raising up a hand of murder on 
them, and some is lonesome getting their death with lamentation in the dead 
of night. 

WIDOW QUIN (not knowing what to say). To hear you talking so quiet, who'd 
know you were the same fellow we seen pass today? 

MAHON. I'm the same surely. The wrack and ruin of three-score years; and 
it's a terror to live that length, I tell you, and to have your sons going 
to the dogs against you, and you wore out scolding them, and skelping them, 
and God knows what. 

PHILLY (to Jimmy). He's not raving. (To Widow Quin.) Will you ask him what 
kind was his son? 

WIDOW QUIN (to Mahon, with a peculiar look). Was your son that hit you a 
lad of one year and a score maybe, a great hand at racing and lepping and 
licking the world? 

MAHON (turning on her with a roar of rage). Didn't you hear me say he was 
the fool of men, the way from this out he'll know the orphan's lot, with 
old and young making game of him, and they swearing, raging, kicking at him 
like a mangy cur. 

A great burst of cheering outside, some way off.

MAHON (putting his hands to his ears). What in the name of God do they want 
roaring below? 

WIDOW QUIN (with the shade of a smile). They're cheering a young lad, the 
champion Playboy of the Western World. 

More cheering.

MAHON (going to window). It'd split my heart to hear them, and I with 
pulses in my brain-pan for a week gone by. Is it racing they are? 

JIMMY (looking from door). It is, then. They are mounting him for the mule 
race will be run upon the sands. That's the playboy on the winkered mule. 

MAHON (puzzled). That lad, is it? If you said it was a fool he was, I'd 
have laid a mighty oath he was the likeness of my wandering son. (Uneasily, 
putting his hand to his head.) Faith, I'm thinking I'll go walking for to 
view the race. 

WIDOW QUIN (stopping him, sharply). You will not. You'd best take the road 
to Belmullet, and not be dilly-dallying in this place where there isn't a 
spot you could sleep. 

PHILLY (coming forward). Don't mind her. Mount there on the bench and 
you'll have a view of the whole. They're hurrying before the tide will 
rise, and it'd be near over if you went down the pathway through the crags 
below. 

MAHON (mounts on bench, Widow Quin beside him). That's a right view again 
the edge of the sea. They're coming now from the point. He's leading. Who 
is he at all? 

WIDOW QUIN. He's the champion of the world, I tell you, and there isn't a 
hap'orth isn't falling lucky to his hands today. 

PHILLY (looking out, interested in the race). Look at that. They're 
pressing him now. 

JIMMY. He'll win it yet. 

PHILLY. Take your time, Jimmy Farrell. It's too soon to say. 

WIDOW QUIN (shouting). Watch him taking the gate. There's riding. 

JIMMY (cheering). More power to the young lad! 

MAHON. He's passing the third. 

JIMMY. He'll lick them yet. 

WIDOW QUIN. He'd lick them if he was running races with a score itself. 

MAHON. Look at the mule he has, kicking the stars. 

WIDOW QUIN. There was a lep! (Catching hold of Mahon in her excitement). 
He's fallen? He's mounted again! Faith, he's passing them all! 

JIMMY. Look at him skelping her! 

PHILLY. And the mountain girls hooshing him on! 

JIMMY. It's the last turn! The post's cleared for them now! 

MAHON. Look at the narrow place. He'll be into the bogs! (With a yell.) 
Good rider! He's through it again! 

JIMMY. He neck and neck! 

MAHON. Good boy to him! Flames, but he's in! (Great cheering, in which all 
join.) 

MAHON (with hesitation). What's that? They're raising him up. They're 
coming this way. (With a roar of rage and astonishment.) It's Christy, by 
the stars of God! I'd know his way of spitting and he astride the moon. 

He jumps down and makes a run for the door,
but Widow Quin catches him and pulls him back. 

WIDOW QUIN. Stay quiet, will you? That's not your son. (To Jimmy.) Stop 
him, or you'll get a month for the abetting of manslaughter and be fined as 
well. 

JIMMY. I'll hold him. 

MAHON (struggling). Let me out! Let me out, the lot of you, till I have my 
vengeance on his head today. 

WIDOW QUIN (shaking him, vehemently). That's not your son. That's a man is 
going to make a marriage with the daughter of this house, a place with fine 
trade, with a licence, and with poteen too. 

MAHON (amazed). That man marrying a decent and a moneyed girl! Is it mad 
yous are? Is it in a crazy-house for females that I'm landed now? 

WIDOW QUIN. It's mad yourself is with the blow upon your head. That lad is 
the wonder of the western world. 

MAHON. I seen it's my son.

WIDOW QUIN. You seen that you're mad. (Cheering outside.) Do you hear them 
cheering him in the zig-zags of the road? Aren't you after saying that your 
son's a fool, and how would they be cheering a true idiot born? 

MAHON (getting distressed). It's maybe out of reason that that man's 
himself. (Cheering again.) There's none surely will go cheering him. Oh, 
I'm raving with a madness that would fright the world! (He sits down with 
his hand to his head.) There was one time I seen ten scarlet divils letting 
on they'd cork my spirit in a gallon can; and one time I seen rats as big 
as badgers sucking the lifeblood from the butt of my lug; but I never till 
this day confused that dribbling idiot with a likely man. I'm destroyed 
surely. 

WIDOW QUIN. And who'd wonder when it's your brain-pan that is gaping now? 

MAHON. Then the blight of the sacred drouth upon myself and him, for I 
never went mad to this day, and I not three weeks with the Limerick girls 
drinking myself silly and parlatic from the dusk to dawn. (To Widow Quin, 
suddenly.) Is my visage astray?

WIDOW QUIN. It is, then. You're a sniggering maniac, a child could see. 

MAHON (getting up more cheerfully). Then I'd best be going to the union 
beyond, and there'll be a welcome before me, I tell you (with great pride), 
and I a terrible and fearful case, the way that there I was one time, 
screeching in a straightened waistcoat, with seven doctors writing out my 
sayings in a printed book. Would you believe that? 

WIDOW QUIN. If you're a wonder itself, you'd best be hasty, for them lads 
caught a maniac one time and pelted the poor creature till he ran out, 
raving and foaming, and was drowned in the sea. 

MAHON (with philosophy). It's true mankind is the divil when your head's 
astray. Let me out now and I'll slip down the boreen, and not see them so. 

WIDOW QUIN (showing him out). That's it. Run to the right, and not a one 
will see.

He runs of. 

PHILLY (wisely). You're at some gaming, Widow Quin; but I'll walk after him 
and give him his dinner and a time to rest, and I'll see then if he's 
raving or as sane as you. 

WIDOW QUIN (annoyed). If you go near that lad, let you be wary of your 
head, I'm saying. Didn't you hear him telling he was crazed at times? 

PHILLY. I heard him telling a power; and I'm thinking we'll have right 
sport before night will fall.

He goes out.

JIMMY. Well, Philly's a conceited and foolish man. How could that madman 
have his senses and his brain-pan slit? I'll go after them and see him turn 
on Philly now. 

He goes; Widow Quin hides poteen behind counter.
Then hubbub outside. 

VOICES. There you are! Good jumper! Grand lepper! Darlint boy! He's the 
racer! Bear him on, will you! 

Christy comes in, in jockey's dress, with Pegeen Mike, Sara, and other 
girls and men. 

PEGEEN (to crowd). Go on now and don't destroy him and he drenching with 
sweat. Go along, I'm saying, and have your tug-of-warring till he's dried 
his skin. 

CROWD. Here's his prizes! A bagpipes! A fiddle was played by a poet in the 
years gone by! A flat and three-thorned blackthorn would lick the scholars 
out of Dublin town! 

CHRISTY (taking prizes from the men). 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. 

TOWN CRIER (outside ringing a bell). Take notice, last event of this day! 
Tug-of-warring on the green below! Come on, the lot of you! Great 
achievements for all Mayo men! 

PEGEEN. Go on and leave him for to rest and dry. Go on, I tell you, for 
he'll do no more. 

She hustles crowd out; Widow Quin following them. 

MEN (going). Come on, then. Goodluck for the while! 

PEGEEN (radiantly, wiping his face with her shawl). Well, you're the lad, 
and you'll have great times from this out when you could win that wealth of 
prizes, and you sweating in the heat of noon! 

CHRISTY (looking at her with delight). 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. 

PEGEEN (backing away from him). 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. 

CHRISTY (indignantly). Starting from you, is it? (He follows her.) 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. 

PEGEEN (looking at him playfully). 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? 

CHRISTY. 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. 

PEGEEN. That'll 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 
talk at all. 

CHRISTY (encouraged). 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 of sunshine, with 
yourself stretched back unto your necklace, in the flowers of the earth. 

PEGEEN (in a low voice, moved by his tone). I'd be nice so, is it? 

CHRISTY (with rapture). 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 abroad, pacing back 
and forward, with a nosegay in her golden shawl. 

PEGEEN (with real tenderness). And what is it I have, Christy Mahon, to 
make me fitting entertainment for the like of you, that has such poet's 
talking, and such bravery of heart. 

CHRISTY (in a low voice). 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? 

PEGEEN. If I was your wife I'd be along with you those nights, Christy 
Mahon, the way you'd see I was a great hand at coaxing bailiffs, or coining 
funny nicknames for the stars of night. 

CHRISTY. You, is it? Taking your death in the hailstones, or in the fogs of 
dawn. 

PEGEEN. Yourself and me would shelter easy in a narrow bush (with a qualm 
of dread); but we're only talking, maybe, for this would be a poor, 
thatched place to hold a fine lad is the like of you. 

CHRISTY (putting his arm round her). 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. 

PEGEEN (radiantly). 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. 

CHRISTY. 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. 

PEGEEN. And myself, 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 the like of you drawing nearer, like the stars of God. 

CHRISTY. 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. 

PEGEEN. 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. (Drunken singing is heard outside.) There's my father 
coming from the wake, and when he's had his sleep we'll tell him, for he's 
peaceful then.

They separate. 

MICHAEL (singing outside):
 
The jailer and the turnkey
They quickly ran us down,
And brought us back as prisoners
Once more to Cavan town. 

He comes in supported by Shawn.

There we lay bewailing
All in a prison bound...

He sees Christy.
Goes and shakes him drunkenly by the hand, while Pegeen and Shawn talk on 
the left. 

MICHAEL (to Christy). 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; and 
wasn't it a shame I didn't bear you along with me to Kate Cassidy's wake, a 
fine, stout lad, the like of you, for you'd never see the match of it for 
flows of drink, the way when we sunk her bones at noonday in her narrow 
grave, there were five men, aye, and six men, stretched out retching 
speechless on the holy stones. 

CHRISTY (uneasily, watching Pegeen). Is that the truth? 

MICHAEL. It is, then; and aren't you a louty schemer to go burying your 
poor father unbeknownst when you'd a right to throw him on the crupper of a 
Kerry mule and drive 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? 

CHRISTY (gruffly). It's well enough he's lying, for the likes of him. 

MICHAEL (slapping him on the back). 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 (pointing to Shawn) 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. 

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

MICHAEL (drawing himself up). 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? 

PEGEEN (breaking away from Shawn). Is it the truth the dispensation's come? 

MICHAEL (triumphantly). 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." 

PEGEEN (fiercely). He's missed his nick of time, for it's that lad, Christy 
Mahon, that I'm wedding now. 

MICHAEL (loudly, with horror). You'd be making him a son to me, and he wet 
and crusted with his father's blood? 

PEGEEN. Aye. Wouldn't it be a bitter thing for a girl to go marrying the 
like of Shaneen, and he a middling kind of a scarecrow, with no savagery or 
fine words in him at all? 

MICHAEL (gasping and sinking on a chair). 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? Would you have them turning on me the way that I'd be 
roaring to the dawn of day with the wind upon my heart? Have you not a word 
to aid me, Shaneen? Are you not jealous at all? 

SHANEEN (in great misery). I'd be afeard to be jealous of a man did slay 
his da? 

PEGEEN. Well, it'd be a poor thing to go; marrying your like. I'm 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 west or south? 

SHAWN. It's a queer story you'd go picking a dirty tramp up from the 
highways of the world. 

PEGEEN (playfully). 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? 

SHAWN. And have you no mind of my weight of passion, and the holy 
dispensation, and the drift of heifers I'm giving, and the golden ring? 

PEGEEN. I'm thinking you're too fine for the like 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 
jewelleries of Pharaoh's ma. That'd be your match, Shaneen. So God save you 
now! 

She retreats behind Christy.

SHAWN. Won't you hear me telling You...? 

CHRISTY (with ferocity). Take yourself from this, young fellow, or I'll 
maybe add a murder to my deeds today. 

MICHAEL (springing up with a shriek). Murder is it? Is it mad yous are? 
Would you go making murder in this place, and it piled with poteen for our 
drink tonight? Go on to the foreshore if it's fighting you want, where the 
rising tide will wash all traces from the memory of man. 

Pushing Shawn towards Christy.

SHAWN (shaking himself free, and getting behind Michael). 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. Strike him yourself, Michael James, or you'll 
lose my drift of heifers and my blue bull from Sneem. 

MICHAEL. Is it me fight him, when it's father-slaying he's bred to now? 
(Pushing Shawn.) Go on, you fool, and fight him now. 

SHAWN (coming forward a little). Will I strike him with my hand? 

MICHAEL. Take the loy is on your western side. 

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

CHRISTY (taking up the loy). Then I'll make you face the gallows or quit 
off from this. (Shawn flies out of the door). 

CHRISTY. Well, fine weather be after him (going to Michael, coaxingly), and 
I'm thinking you wouldn't wish to have 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. 

PEGEEN (at the other side of Michael). Bless us now, for I swear to God 
I'll wed him, and I'll not renege. 

MICHAEL (standing up in the centre, holding on to both of them). 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 rear 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 he with no place of his own, like 
an old braying jackass strayed upon the rocks? (To Christy.) It's many 
would be in dread to bring your like into their house for to end them, 
maybe, with a sudden end; but I'm a decent man of Ireland, and I liefer 
face the grave untimely and I seeing a score of grandsons growing up little 
gallant swearers by the name of God, than go peopling my bedside with puny 
weeds the like of what you'd breed, I'm thinking, out of Shaneen Keogh. (He 
joins their hands.) A daring fellow is the jewel of the world, and a man 
did split his father's middle with a single clout should have the bravery 
of ten, so may God and Mary and St. Patrick bless you, and increase you 
from this mortal day. 

CHRISTY and PEGEEN. Amen, O Lord! 

Hubbub outside. Old Mahon rushes in followed by all the crowd, and Widow 
Quin. 
He makes a rush at Christy, knocks him down, and begins to beat him. 

PEGEEN (dragging back his arm). Stop that, will you? Who are you at all? 

MAHON. His father, God forgive me! 

PEGEEN (drawing back). Is it rose from the dead? 

MAHON. Do you think I look so easy quenched with the tap of a loy? 

Beats Christy again.

SHAWN (glaring at Christy). And it's lies you told, letting on you had him 
slitted, and you nothing at all. 

CHRISTY (catching Mahon's stick). He's not my father. He's a raving maniac 
would scare the world. (Pointing to Widow Quin.) Herself knows it is true. 

CROWD. You're fooling Pegeen! The Widow Quin seen him this day, and you 
likely knew! You're a liar! 

CHRISTY (dumfounded). It's himself was a liar, lying stretched out with an 
open head on him, letting on he was dead. 

MAHON. Weren't you off racing the hills before I got my breath with the 
start I had seeing you turn on me at all? 

PEGEEN. 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. 

CHRISTY (piteously). 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? 

PEGEEN. 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. (To Mahon.) Take him on from this, for I think bad the world should see 
me raging for a Munster liar, and the fool of men. 

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

CROWD (jeeringly). There's the playboy! There's the lad thought he'd rule 
the roost in Mayo! Slate him now, mister.

CHRISTY (getting up in shy terror). What is it drives you to torment me 
here, when I'd asked the thunders of the might of God to blast me if I ever 
did hurt to any saving only that one single blow. 

MAHON (loudly). If you didn't, you're a poor good-for-nothing, and isn't it 
by the like of you the sins of the whole world are committed? 

CHRISTY (raising his hands). In the name of the Almighty God...

MAHON. Leave troubling the Lord God. Would you have Him sending down 
droughts, and fevers, and the old hen and the cholera morbus? 

CHRISTY (to Widow Quin). Will you come between us and protect me now? 

WIDOW QUIN. I've tried a lot, God help me, and my share is done. 

CHRISTY (looking round in desperation). 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; or the winds 
of March blowing on me till I'd take an oath I felt them making whistles of 
my ribs within?

SARA. Ask Pegeen to aid you. Her like does often change. 

CHRISTY. I will not, then, for there's torment in the splendour of her 
like, and she a girl any moon of midnight would take pride to meet, facing 
southwards on the heaths of Keel. But what did I want crawling forward to 
scorch my understanding at her flaming brow? 

PEGEEN (to Mahon, vehemently, fearing she will break into tears). Take him 
on from this or I'll set the young lads to destroy him here. 

MAHON (going to him, shaking his stick). Come on now if you wouldn't have 
the company to see you skelped. 

PEGEEN (half laughing through her tears). 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. 

CHRISTY (to Mahon, very sharply). Leave me go! 

CROWD. That's it. Now, Christy. If them two set fighting, it will lick the 
world. 

MAHON (making a grab at Christy). Come here to me. 

CHRISTY (more threateningly). Leave me go, I'm saying.

MAHON. I will, maybe, when your legs is limping, and your back is blue. 

CROWD. Keep it up, the two of you. I'll back the old one. Now the playboy. 

CHRISTY (in low and intense voice). 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, go 
mixing with the fools of earth. 

Mahon makes a movement towards him.

CHRISTY (almost shouting). Keep off... lest I do show a blow unto the 
lot of you would set the guardian angels winking in the clouds above. 

He swings round with a sudden rapid movement and picks up a loy. 

CROWD (half-frightened, half-amused). He's going mad! Mind yourselves! Run 
from the idiot! 

CHRISTY. If I am an idiot, I'm after hearing my voice this day saying words 
would raise the top-knot on a poet in a merchant's town. I've won your 
racing, and your lepping, and... 

MAHON. Shut your gullet and come on with me.

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

He runs at old Mahon with the loy, chases him out of the door, followed by 
crowd and Widow Quin. There is a great noise outside, then a yell, and dead 
silence for a moment. Christy comes in, half-dazed, and goes to fire. 

WIDOW QUIN (coming in hurriedly, and going to him). They're turning again 
you. Come on, or you'll be hanged, indeed. 

CHRISTY. I'm thinking, from this out, Pegeen'll be giving me praises, the 
same as in the hours gone by. 

WIDOW QUIN (impatiently). Come by the back-door. I'd think bad to have you 
stifled on the gallows tree. 

CHRISTY (indignantly). I will not, then. What good'd be my lifetime if I 
left Pegeen? 

WIDOW QUIN. 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. 

CHRISTY. I'll not leave Pegeen Mike. 

WIDOW QUIN (impatiently). Isn't there the match of her in every parish 
public, from Binghamstown unto the plain of Meath? Come on, I tell you, and 
I'll find you finer sweethearts at each waning moon. 

CHRISTY. It's Pegeen I'm seeking only, and what'd I care if you brought me 
a drift of chosen females, standing in their shifts itself, maybe, from 
this place to the eastern world? 

SARA (runs in, pulling of one of her petticoats). They're going to hang 
him. (Holding out petticoat and shawl.) Fit these upon him, and let him run 
off to the east. 

WIDOW QUIN. He's raving now; but we'll fit them on him, and I'll take him 
in the ferry to the Achill boat. 

CHRISTY (struggling feebly). Leave me go, will you? when I'm thinking of my 
luck today, for she will wed me surely, and I a proven hero in the end of 
all. 

They try to fasten petticoat round him.

WIDOW QUIN. Take his left hand, and we'll pull him now. Come on, young 
fellow. 

CHRISTY (suddenly starting up). You'll be taking me from her? You're 
jealous, is it, of her wedding me? Go on from this. 

He snatches up a stool, and threatens them with it. 

WIDOW QUIN (going). It's in the madhouse they should put him, not in jail, 
at all. We'll go by the back-door to call the doctor, and we'll save him 
so. 

She goes out, with Sara, through inner room. Men crowd in the doorway. 
Christy sits down again by the fire.

MICHAEL (in a terrified whisper). I's the old lad killed surely? 

PHILLY. I'm after feeling the last gasps quitting his heart. (They peer in 
at Christy). 

MICHAEL (with a rope). 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. 

PHILLY. Let you take it, Shaneen. You're the soberest of all that's here. 

SHAWN. Is it me to go near him, and he the wickedest and worst with me? Let 
you take it, Pegeen Mike. 

PEGEEN. Come on, so. 

She goes forward with the others, and they drop the double hitch over his 
head. 

CHRISTY. What ails you? 

SHAWN (triumphantly, as they pull the rope tight on his arms). Come on to 
the peelers, till they stretch you now. 

CHRISTY. Me! 
M ICHAEL. If we took pity on you the Lord God would, maybe, bring us ruin 
from the law today, so you'd best come easy, for hanging is an easy and a 
speedy end. 

CHRISTY. I'll not stir. (To Pegeen.) And what is it you'll say to me, and I 
after doing it this time in the face of all? 

PEGEEN. 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. (To 
men.) Take him on from this, or the lot of us will be likely put on trial 
for his deed today. 

CHRISTY (with horror in his voice). And it's yourself will send me off, to 
have a horny-fingered hangman hitching his bloody slipknots at the butt of 
my ear. 

MEN (pulling rope). Come on, will you? 

He is pulled down on the floor.

CHRISTY (twisting his legs round the table). Cut the rope, Pegeen, and I'll 
quit the lot of you, and live from this out, like the madmen of Keel, 
eating muck and green weeds on the faces of the cliffs. 

PEGEEN. And leave us to hang, is it, for a saucy liar, the like of you? (To 
men.) Take him on, out from this.

SHAWN. Put a twist on his neck, and squeeze him so. 

PHILLY. Twist yourself. Sure he cannot hurt you, if you keep your distance 
from his teeth alone. 

SHAWN. I'm afeard of him. (To Pegeen.) Lift a lighted sod, will you, and 
scorch his leg. 

PEGEEN (blowing the fire with a bellows). Leave go now, young fellow, or 
I'll scorch your shins. 

CHRISTY. You're blowing for to torture me. (His voice rising and growing 
stronger.) That's your kind, is it? Then let the lot of you be wary, for, 
if I've to face the gallows, I'll have a gay march down, I tell you, and 
shed the blood of some of you before I die. 

SHAWN (in terror). Keep a good hold, Philly. Be wary, for the love of God. 
For I'm thinking he would liefest wreak his pains on me. 

CHRISTY (almost gaily). If I do lay my hands on you, it's the way you'll be 
at the fall of night, hanging as a scarecrow for the fowls of hell. Ah, 
you'll have a gallous jaunt, I'm saying, coaching out through Limbo with my 
father's ghost.

SHAWN (to Pegeen). Make haste, will you? Oh, isn't he a holy terror, and 
isn't it true for Father Reilly, that all drink's a curse that has the lot 
of you so shaky and uncertain now? 

CHRISTY. If I can wring a neck among you, I'll have a royal judgment 
looking on the trembling jury in the courts of law. And won't there be 
crying out in Mayo the day I'm stretched upon the rope, with ladies in 
their silks and satins snivelling in their lacy kerchiefs, and they rhyming 
songs and ballads on the terror of my fate? 

He squirms round on the floor and bites Shawn's leg. 

SHAWN (shrieking). My leg's bit on me. He's the like of a mad dog, I'm 
thinking, the way that I will surely die. 

CHRISTY (delighted with himself). 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. 

Old Mahon comes in behind on all fours and looks on unnoticed. 

MEN (to Pegeen). Bring the sod, will you?

PEGEEN (coming over). God help him so. (Burns his leg.) 

CHRISTY (kicking and screaming). Oh, glory be to God! 

He kicks loose from the table, and they all drag him towards the door. 

JIMMY (seeing old Mahon). Will you look what's come in? 

They all drop Christy and run left.

CHRISTY (scrambling on his knees face to face with old Mahon). Are you 
coming to be kilIed a third time, or what ails you now? 

MAHON. For what is it they have you tied? 

CHRISTY. They're taking me to the peelers to have me hanged for slaying 
you. 

MICHAEL (apologetically). It is the will of God 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? 

MAHON (grimly, loosening Christy). 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 have great times from this out 
telling stories of the villainy of Mayo, and the fools is here. (To 
Christy, who is freed.) Come on now. 

CHRISTY. Go with you, is it? I will then, like a gallant captain with his 
heathen slave. Go on now and I'll see you from this day stewing my oatmeal 
and washing my spuds, for I'm master of all fights from now. (Pushing 
Mahon.) Go on, I'm saying. 

MAHON. Is it me? 

CHRISTY. Not a word out of you. Go on from this. 

MAHON (walking out and looking back at Christy over his shoulder). Glory be 
to God! (With a broad smile.) I am crazy again. (Goes.) 

CHRISTY. Ten thousand blessings upon all that'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 judgment day. 

He goes out. 

MICHAEL. BY the will of God, we'll have peace now for our drinks. Will you 
draw the porter, Pegeen? 

SHAWN (going up to her). 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.

SHAWN (hitting him a box on the ear). Quit my sight. (Putting her shawl 
over her head and breaking out into wild lamentations.) Oh, my grief, I've 
lost him surely. I've lost the only Playboy of the Western World. 

CURTAIN.