Máirtín Ó Cadhain - Graveyard Clay - Cré na Cille

— Bloody tear and ’ounds , Caitríona, they were nearly neck and neck with myself coming here. I had six days’ start on Bid Shorcha, and ten days on Little Cáit.

— That’ll teach them to stay in their beds the next time! Why did they want to go to mat-haired Nell? Curiosity. They wouldn’t come to decent people half as willingly …

— There’ll be nobody left now to stretch or keen Tomás Inside or Nell Pháidín …

— Oh! Isn’t it great to have the pussface in a fix! …

— … It was God’s vengeance for certain that was the cause of Caitríona Pháidín’s death. Honest …

— You’re a damned liar, Nóirín …

— He wreaked vengeance on her for robbing Tomás Inside, and for stealing Bríd Terry’s father’s tea, Cite’s potatoes and Seáinín Liam’s periwinkles …

— Not at all, Nóra Sheáinín, it was the St. John’s Gospel that Nell got from the priest for your daughter. They sent Caitríona to her death instead of her. Only for that, your daughter would have been here on that childbirth. She was sickly all her life till Caitríona died. But then she began to thrive …

— Ababúna búna! The devil a word of a lie you’re saying! By the book, it never crossed my mind!

— … The death I’d give Siúán the Shop is to make her drink her own coffee …

— … To wear her own clogs .

— The death I’d give you, Glutton, is to make you drink pints of porter till it came out your nostrils, your eyes, your ears, under your nails, in your armpits, under your eyebrows, between your toes, in the hollows at the back of your knees, in your elbows, in the roots of your hair, till you’d sweat the seven perspirations of porter …

— … The most fitting death for you would be to be let live to see Kerry beat Galway in the All-Ireland final of 1941, with “The Rose of Tralee” being played on Concannon’s backside …

— … The death I’d give you and every single one of your treacherous One-Ear Breed, is to make you …

— To make them shout “Up de Valera” …

— … No, but the death I’d give Road-End Man …

— To leave him to me till I’d ram one of my thatching scallops down his throat, into his gullet and through that gut of his …

— To leave him to me till I’d crack him with the lump-hammer he stole from me …

— I would gladly and promptly cut the head off him with my reaping hook …

— No more gladly than I would hang him with my rope …

— … Peadar the Pub? Drown him in his own worthless watered whiskey …

— … Pól? Make him wait with parched throat for the Gaelic Enthusiast to finish reading the “lesson” …

— … May the devil pierce himself and his trivial verses! Not to give that impudent brat, that good-for-nothing, anything to eat but his own “Sacred Ashes” …

— The death Caitríona would give to Nóra Sheáinín would be to make her disinfect herself, especially her feet …

— Shut your mouth, you brat …

— … The writer, is it? He insulted Columkille, the measly pup. To be compelled to make as many pilgrimages as the Schoolmistress makes for Billyboy the Post …

— To make him stuff Sixty-One Sermons down his throat …

— To make him recant in public his heresy and his insult to Columkille; to make him humbly ask forgiveness for all he has ever written; for all the young innocent maidens led astray by his evil writings; for the many married couples he drove apart; for all the happy families he split up; for being the precursor of the Antichrist . Then to excommunicate him and then burn him at the stake. Nothing less would teach heretics a lesson …

— … The death the Big Master would give to Billyboy …

— The thieving scoundrel! The death I’d give that cocky lout …

— … The Postmistress! To keep her from reading anybody else’s letters but her very own for a week …

—’Tis true for you. A week without gossip caused Big Colm’s daughter’s death …

— They say the Schoolmistress said the Big Master’s cause of death was …

— That he was too good for this world …

— Faith then, she did. I’ll never forget what she said. “Whom the gods love …”

— Oh! The harlot! The draggle-haired slut! The cocksnout!

— De grâce , Master. You’re behaving like Caitríona!

— … Don’t you remember that I am the oldest inhabitant of the graveyard! Permission to speak …

— … Little Cáit! To keep her away from corpses …

— You must be joking! Even the Afrika Korps couldn’t do that, once she got their scent …

— The death Big Brian would give to Caitríona Pháidín …

— The thieving cat’s death under the pot! …

— To make her stand outside her own house; Nell in her flowery hat going past in her motor car; a little crescent of a smile on her face as she looks in at Caitríona, and Nell blowing the horn for all she’s worth …

— Oh! Leave me alone! Leave me alone! I’d explode …

— Isn’t that what I said!

— I’d explode! I’d explode!

4

— … “Would you come ho-ome along with me:

There’s roo-oom beneath my shaw-awl,

And indeed, my Jack …”

— Écoutez-moi, mes amis. Les études celtiques . We’ll have a Colloquium now.

— A Colloquium , lads! Hey! Bríd Terry, Sweet-talking Stiofán, Máirtín Pockface! A Colloquium …

— A Colloquium , Red-haired Tom! …

— I’ll say nothing. Nothing …

— Isn’t it a pity Tomás Inside isn’t here! He’d be a good man for a Colloquium …

— The result of my findings concerning the dialect of the Half Guinea. I’m afraid this will not be a proper Colloquium . The only language a Colloquium can be properly held in cannot be spoken fast enough by me or by you people …

— Fast enough?

— Fast, mes amis . The first qualification for a Colloquium is speed. I have to say, my Irish friends, that I’m greatly disappointed by my research …

— Musha, God help us, you poor thing! …

— Mes amis , it’s not possible to carry out learned research into a language spoken by a great number of people, such as English or Russian …

— I’ve a great suspicion he’s a black heretic …

— It’s only possible — and only worthwhile — to carry out research into a dialect known to two persons, or three at most. There should be three senile dribbles accompanying every word.

— … There was such a day, Peadar the Pub. Don’t deny it …

— It’s not worth researching a person’s speech unless the words come out astride one another …

— … Eight into eight, that’s one. Eight into sixteen, that’s two …

— … This Colloquium is a heaven-sent opportunity for me to read The Setting Sun …

— Pas du tout! This is a Colloquium convenable …

— I won’t listen to The Setting Sun . I won’t. Honest! …

— Hold on now, my good Frenchman! I’ll tell you a story …

— Écoutez, Monsieur Cóilí. This is a Colloquium . Not a University lecture on Irish Literature …

— I’ll tell you a story. Upon my soul I will! 7“The Kitten That Committed an Impropriety on the White Sheets of All of Conn’s 8Half of Ireland …”

— … “Mártan Sheáin Mhóir had a daughter

And she was as broad as …”

— … “At the Wattle Ford 9of Merriment he met Moghchat of the round fat thighs. ‘Don’t go any further,’ said the Moghchat. ‘I have just returned from Wattle Ford, after having committed that little impropriety on all the white sheets there. From now on it will be called Wattle Ford of Black Pool. I left this fine conspicuous piece of mischief — the Eiscir Riada 10—in my tracks coming down, and before that I committed a little smear of mischief on the fine sheets all over Mogh’s Half of Ireland’” … Mogh’s Half, my good friend, from Moghchat: big cat in Old Irish …