Mother:  Is it the verses of Raftery’s talk into the Bush you would wish me to give out, or the three hundred and sixty-nine verses of the Contention of the Bards—­(Repeats verse of “The Talk with the Bush” in Irish.)

  “Cead agus mile roiamh am na h-Airce
  Tus agus crothugadh m’aois agus mo dhata
  Tha me o shoin im’ shuidhe san ait so
  Agus is iomdha sgeal a bhfeadain tracht air.”

Or I’ll English it if that will please you: 

  “A hundred years and a thousand before the time of the Ark
  Was the beginning and creation of my age and my date;
  I am from that time sitting in this place,
  And it’s many a story I am able to give news of.”

Conan:  (Putting hands to ears and walking away.) I am thinking your mind got unsettled with the weight of years.

Mother:  (Following him.) No, but your own that got scattered from the time you ran barefoot carrying worms in a tin can for that Professor of a Collegian that went fishing in the stream, and that you followed after till you got to think yourself a lamp of light for the universe!

Conan:  Will you stop deafening the whole world with your babble!

Mother:  There was always a bad drop in you that attached to you out of the grandfather.  What did your languages do for you but to sharpen your tongue, till the scrape of it would take the skin off, the same as a cat!  My blessing on you, Conan, but my curse upon your mouth!

Conan:  Oh, will you stop your chat!

Mother:  Every word you speak having in it the sting of a bee that was made out of the curses of a saint!

Conan:  Stop your gibberish!

Mother:  Are you satisfied now?

Conan:  I’m not satisfied!

Mother:  And never will be, for you were ever and always a fault-finder and full of crossness from the day that you were small suited.

Conan:  You remember that, too?

Mother:  I do well!

Conan:  Where is the bellows?  Was it you (to Flannery) that blew a blast on her?

Flannery:  It was not.

Conan:  Or you?

Rock:  It’s long sorry I’d be to do such a thing!

Conan:  It is certain someone did it on her.  Where now is it?

Mother:  (Seizing him.) And I remember the day you threw out your mug of milk into the street, by reason, says you, you didn’t like the colour of the cow that gave it!

Conan:  Will you stop ripping up little annoyances, till I’ll find the bellows!

Rock:  It’s what I’m thinking, her memory will soon be back at the far side of Solomon’s Temple.

Mother:  (Repeats in Irish.) Agus is iomdha sgeal a bhfeadain traacht air!

Conan:  (Shouting.) Is it that you’ll drive the seven senses out of me!