Conan:  Hurry on now and remember!

Mother:  Ah, it’s hard remember anything and the weather so uncertain as what it is.

Conan:  Is it of late you heard it?

Mother:  It was maybe ere yesterday or some day of the sort; I don’t know.  Since the age tampered with me the thing I’d hear to-day I wouldn’t think of to-morrow.

Conan:  Try now and tell me was it that Aristotle, the time he walked Ireland, had come to this place.

Mother:  It might be that, unless it might be some other thing.

Conan:  And that he left some great treasure hid—­it might be in the rath without.

Mother:  And what good would it do you a pot of gold to be hid in the rath where you would never come near to it, it being guarded by enchanted cats and they having fiery eyes?

Conan:  Did I say anything about a pot of gold?  This was better again than gold.  This was an enchantment would raise you up if you were gasping from death.  Give attention now ...  Aristotle.

Mother:  It’s Harry he used to be called.

Conan:  Listen now. (Sings.) (Air, “Bells of Shandon.")

  “Once Aristotle hid in a bottle
  Or some other vessel of security
  A spell had power bring sweet from sour
  Or bring blossoms blooming on the blasted tree.”

Mother:  (Repeating last line.) “Or bring blossoms blooming on the blasted tree.”

Conan:  Is that now what you heard ...that Aristotle has hid some secret spell?

Mother:  I won’t say what I don’t know.  My memory is too weak for me to be telling lies.

Conan:  You could strengthen it if you took it in hand, putting a knot in the corner of your shawl to keep such and such a thing in mind.

Mother:  If I did I should put another knot in the other corner to remember what was the first one for.

Conan:  You’d remember it well enough if it was a pound of tea!

Mother:  Ah, maybe it’s best be as I am and not to be running carrying lies here and there, putting trouble on people’s mind.

Conan:  Isn’t it terrible to be seeing all this folly around me and not to have a way to better it!

Mother:  Ah, dear, it’s best leave the time under the mercy of the Man that is over us all.

Conan:  (Jumping up furious.) Where’s the use of old people being in the world at all if they cannot keep a memory of things gone by! (Sings.) (Air, “O the time I’ve lost in wooing.”)

  “O the time I’ve lost pursuing
  And feeling nothing doing,
  The lure that led me from my bed
  Has left me sad and rueing! 
  Success seemed very near me! 
  High hope was there to cheer me! 
  I asked my book where would I look
  And all it did was fleer me!”