Máirtín Ó Cadhain - Graveyard Clay - Cré na Cille

— … Honest , Dotie. Not a night went by that she wouldn’t come over the old path from her own village, to be there before him in the boreen when he was going visiting …

— Oh, Mother of God above! The streak of misery!

— … She asked him to marry her, two or three times …

— Big Brian! To marry Big Brian! …

— … Honest , Dotie.

— Gug-goog, Dotie!

— Gug-goog, Tomás Inside!

— Honest to Heavens , Dotie! It’s not refined to be shouting “Gug-goog” like that all over the graveyard. What will the Pound people say? It’s a bad example to the Half-Guinea crowd. Say “Okeedoh.” But why bother to answer the old brute at all? …

— Unrequited love, Nóróg …

— … Big Brian, Jack! Big Brian of the stuffed-up nose, slouched shoulders, buckteeth, beard. Big Brian who never washed …

— God would punish us, Caitríona …

— … I tell you that life wouldn’t be half as bad if there were no women …

— Didn’t you hear the story Cóilí had the other day! The servant-girl tempted the Pope, and Rory McHugh O’Flaherty — a holy man who was here long ago — had to go over straight away to tell the Pope to watch himself. Riding on the Devil’s back he went to Rome …

— Look at that drunkard of a woman in Brightcity who’s threatening law on the Small Master if he leaves her for another one …

— Road-End Man would say that the women are worse than the men. The priest’s sister asked his son to marry her …

— The Big Master himself says so …

— Oh, the women are always to blame! …

— The women are always to blame, Bríd Terry?

— Oh, didn’t I see the state of those floozies in the pictures! …

— Faith then, you did, and so did I, Bríd. When Mae West was smiling at us, didn’t I say to the young fellow: “I wouldn’t advise you to have anything to do with the likes of her,” says I. “She’d be good handling a colt all right, but …”

— Listen, Seáinín Liam, the women are nothing but a rainbow on its hunkers, as the old proverb says.

— Well, by Dad, an old codger like you giving out about women, and you never in all your life had anything to do with women, unless you saw them going the road! How the devil would you know? …

— I do know, then. A man told me a long time ago. An old man who was very old …

— The women are a hundred times worse. They are indeed, my friend. By the docks …

— Oh, don’t annoy me! Look at that eldest son of mine who wouldn’t give up Road-End’s daughter although I’d let him have the big holding! The devil pierce …

— And the son of the man over there who married a black …

— I’m a woman, and I’d take the part of the women if I could find it in me to do so. But all you have to do is to listen to Caitríona Pháidín driving Jack the Scológ to distraction day in day out …

— Faith then, Caitríona isn’t the only woman in the graveyard who has her tongue cocked at the Scológ’s fair son …

— I never saw a woman as bad as that one. Do you know what she said to him the other day, that Nell deceived him when she asked him to marry her. Isn’t she the shameless one …

— By the oak of this coffin, what I heard her say was: “The pack of women here are jealous that you talk to me, Jack,” says she. “But be very stern indeed with them, like a good man!” … Whatever shame she ever had she left above ground …

—“Muraed Phroinsiais,” says she to me, “the barb has been removed from my heart, and since Jack arrived I feel the time flying by as fast as a night of music.” “Have you auctioned off every last stitch of shame, Caitríona?” says I to her …

— Did you hear, Muraed, what she said to me? “Bríd Terry,” she said, “isn’t it great revenge on the pussface! ‘Jack is mine. Jack is mine.’ She hasn’t got Jack under her little rag of a shawl now, Bríd Terry …”

— I’ll speak to Jack the Scológ. And you’d speak to him too, you slut, if he’d speak to you. It’s not for want of trying on your part that he doesn’t speak to you, you little tight-arse …

— Spare me the lash of your tongue, Caitríona. Peace and quiet is what I want …

— More power to you, Caitríona! They badly need a dressing down like that! You’d think from this flock of women here that there’s no other man in the graveyard but Son of Scológ! I wouldn’t mind if they weren’t married women …

— But the Big Master admitted the other day that death dissolves marriage vows …

— What does he have against Billyboy the Post so?

— He said that: Death dissolves marriage vows! I was right to have my suspicions about him. He’s a heretic for certain …

— Will you hold on till you hear the full story! If Caitríona had only said that much I wouldn’t mind … “Bríd Terry,” she said, “there’s …” Decency forbids me to repeat what she said, with all the men listening …

— Whisper it, Bríd …

— Whisper it to me, Bríd! …

— To me, Bríd! …

— I’ll tell it to Nóra … Now, what do you think of that, Nóra? …

— Upon my word! I’m shocked! Who would ever think it of Jack! …

— I think we should warn Jack, on account of Nell not being here …

— I’ll speak to him …

— You don’t have the discretion a woman should have …

— Do you need any spiritual advice, Jack the Scológ?

— It’s very interfering of you, Big Colm’s daughter, to be poking your nose into the matter at all, and women here three times your age …

— Hey, Jack the Scológ! Jack the Scológ! … this is Muraed Phroinsiais … I have some advice to give you … After a while. You’ll sing a little song first, Jack …

— Do, please, Jack …

— The blessings of God on you, Jack, do!

— Jack, you can’t be discourteous to me. Bríd Terry here …

— Honest , Jack, that new refrain: Bunga Bunga Bunga 8…

— Bunga Bunga Bunga! By the docks, Bunga Bunga Bunga , Son of Scológ! …

— You won’t refuse me, Jack. Siúán the Shop here …

— May God forgive you all! … Why don’t you leave me alone! … I’ve told you already that I won’t sing a song.

— Oh Jack, my dearest Jack, this shoal of women are as voracious and persistent as porpoises after a sturgeon. Tell them, Jack, as you used to tell us long ago on the bogs, when we were young girls throwing clods at you: “I thought the fowling season didn’t open this early in the year …”

— God would punish us for saying anything untoward, Caitríona. But I implore God and His Blessed Mother to get the women of this graveyard off my back …

— Nóirín Filthy Feet, lying Cite, smiling Siúán, Bríd Terry. Oh, Jack sweetheart, I know these women better than you do. You were always far off from them, up there in the wilderness of the marsh. And I’m longer here than you are. Take care not to pay any attention to them! I wouldn’t mind, but asking you for songs!

— Every minute, Caitríona. But God would punish us for saying anything about our neighbour …

— These women would say about Good God Himself, Jack, that he came looking for a pound of money off them and didn’t pay it back! Oh, I’ve suffered life with themselves and their lies! Hey, Jack … You’ve been promising me for a long time, but you might as well sing a song now …

— Don’t ask me to, Caitríona …

— Just one verse, Jack! Just one verse! …

— Some other time, Caitríona. Some other time …

— Now, Jack. Now …