Act 3 — Scene I.
Reading edition
—A hovel by the sea at Ballycottin, near Queenstown. Eamon, in squalid garments and in an appropriate attitude of misery, is crouched over the fire. Seamus Smitha is distilling poteen by the door. Peadar Roabensôn and the Men of Gunn (a war-like clan) are lurking in the background. Caitilin ni Houlihan, Bridgeen Dick, and the Widow Markiewicz are watching Eamon with speechless devotion. The door is flung open and Sean de Browna bursts in.
Sean: Where’s himself?
Seamus: Taking a bit of sleep, maybe, if he’s able—God help him!
Sean (exultantly): There’s fine doings on the sands this night, with great ships boarded and sunk and the lads making grand talk. Rifles and cannon we’ve taken, and munitions would be enough for a great war.
The Men of Gunn (murmuring appreciatively): Bully for you, Kid!
Peadar: It’s himself will bless these tidings. (Addressing Eamon with conspicuous timidity): Mister, honey, he’s after saying they’ve sunk the British Navy, and captured all the munitions in the western world.
Eamon: The blessing of Gunn upon those words! (Dropping his voice): I say, what d’you imagine they’ve really got?
Peadar (dropping his): Oh, I don’t know—a few dozen rifles, I suppose, and a couple of boxes of S.A.A. One has to exaggerate a bit in an Irish drama.
(Enter Boûgus, claimant to the throne of Ulster, followed by Naisi and Narsti, the sons of Gunn.)
Boûgus (in bloodthirsty tones): It’s taking the arms up to the caves they are, till all’s ready to strike the blow; and it’s fine gory heads there’ll be, and great masses of dead bodies that day in the six counties, and throughout the land, so you’ll not avoid to tread on the white upturned faces of the dead, they lying so thick. And I’ll be king that day in Ulster, and the black Orangemen destroyed and vanquished.
The Men of Gunn (with appreciation): Sa-ay, kid, that’s talking.
Eamon: Let you go down now, Boûgus, with Naisi and Narsti and the men of Gunn; for I’ve word that Cosgrave, or perhaps Mulcahy, do be coming to Castlebar or maybe Dundalk, and it’s there he must be sent away with scorn and laughter, and maybe a leaden bullet or two.
The Men of Gunn (springing to their feet): Easy money. Get right after it, boys.
Boûgus (bursting into song): Oh, Alannah, Acushla, Asthore, Macree, Honomandhiaul!!! (He dashes out at the head of the party. Eamon wraps himself complacently in his rags and nods over the fire. The women continue to regard him with speechless devotion.)