Mother:  So you did, if I could but have kept it in mind.  What at all ails him that he does not come in to the breakfast?

Celia:  He went out last night and the full moon shining.  It is likely he passed the whole night abroad, drowsing or rummaging, whatever he does be looking for in the rath.

Mother:  I’m in dread he’ll go crazy with digging in it.

Celia:  He was crazy with crossness before that.

Mother:  If he is it’s on account of his learning.  Them that have too much of it are seven times crosser than them that never saw a book.

Celia:  It is better to be tied to any thorny bush than to be with a cross man.  He to know the seventy-two languages he couldn’t be more crabbed than what he is.

Mother:  It is natural to people do be so clever to be fiery a little, and not have a long patience.

Celia:  It’s a pity he wouldn’t stop in that school he had down in the North, and not to come back here in the latter end of life.

Mother:  Ah, he was maybe tired with enlightening his scholars and he took a notion to acquaint ourselves with knowledge and learning.  I was trying to reckon a while ago the number of the years he was away, according to the buttons of my gown (fingers bodice), but they went astray on me at the gathers of the neck.

Celia:  If the hour would come he’d go out of this, I’d sing, I’d play on all the melodeons that ever was known! (Sings.) (Air, “Shule Aroon.”)

  “I would not wish him any ill,
  But were he swept to some far hill
  It’s then I’d laugh and laugh my fill,
  Coo, Coo, my birdeen ban astore.

  “I wish I was a linnet free
  To rock and rustle on the tree
  With none to haste or hustle me,
  Coo, Coo, my birdeen ban astore!”

Mother:  Did you make ready now what will please him for his breakfast?

Celia:  (Laughing.) I’m doing every whole thing, but you know well to please him is not possible.

Mother:  It is going astray on me what sort of egg best suits him, a pullet’s egg or the egg of a duck.

Celia:  I’d go search out if it would satisfy him the egg of an eagle having eyes as big as the moon, and feathers of pure gold.

Mother:  Look out again would you see him.

Celia:  (Sitting up reluctantly.) I wonder will the rosy ribbon or the pale put the best appearance on my party dress to-night? (Looks out.) He is coming down the path from the rath, and he having his little old book in his hand, that he gives out fell down before him from the skies.

Mother:  So there is a little book, whatever language he does be wording out of it.

Celia:  If you listen you’ll hear it now, or hear his own talk, for he’s mouthing and muttering as he travels the path.