Flannery:  Indeed, he’d as well have left her as she was.  There was something very pleasing in her little sleepy ways.

(Sings.)

  “But sad it is to see you so
  And to think of you now as an object of woe;
  Your Peggy’ll still keep an eye on her beau. 
    O Johnny, I hardly knew you!”

Rock:  Bringing back to the memory of his mother every old grief and rancour.  She that has a right to be making her peace with the grave!

Flannery:  Indeed it seems he doesn’t mind what he’ll get so long as it’s something that he wants.

Rock:  Three blasts gone!  And the world didn’t begin to be cured.

Flannery:  Sure enough he gave the bellows no fair play.

Rock:  He has us made a fool of.  He using it the way he did, he has us robbed.

Flannery:  There’s power in the four blasts left would bring peace and piety and prosperity and plenty to every one of the four provinces of Ireland.

Rock:  That’s it.  There’s no doubt but I’ll make a better use of it than him, because I am a better man than himself.

Flannery:  I don’t know.  You might not get so much respect in Dublin.

Rock:  Dublin, where are you!  What would I’d do going to Dublin?  Did you never hear said the skin to be nearer than the shirt?

Flannery:  What do you mean saying that?

Rock:  The first one I have to do good to is myself.

Flannery:  Is it that you would grab the benefit of the bellows?

Rock:  In troth I will.  I’ve got a hold of it, and by cripes I’ll knock a good turn out of it.

Flannery:  To rob the country and the poor for your own profit?  You are a class of man that is gathering all for himself.

Rock:  It is not worth while we to fall out of friendship.  I will use but the one blast.

Flannery:  You have no right or call to meddle with it.

Rock:  The first thing I will meddle with is my own rick of turf.  And I’ll give you leave to go do the same with your own umbrella, or whatever property you may own.

Flannery:  Sooner than be covetous like yourself I’d live and die in a ditch, and be buried from the Poorhouse!

Rock:  Turf being black and light in the hand, and gold being shiny and weighty, there will be no delay in turning every sod into a solid brick of gold.  I give you leave to do the same thing, and we’ll be two rich men inside a half an hour!

Flannery:  You are no less than a thief! (Snatches at bellows.)

Rock:  Thief yourself.  Leave your hand off it!

Flannery:  Give it up here for the man that owns it!

Rock:  You may set your coffin making for I’ll beat you to the ground.

Flannery:  (As he clutches.) Ah, you have given it a shove.  It has blown a blast on yourself!