Maire Bruin (going over to the window and taking the flowers from the bowl.)

Here are the primroses.

    [She goes to the door and strews the primroses outside.

Father Hart.

You do well, daughter, because God permits
Great power to the good people on May Eve.

MAURTEEN Bruin.

They can work all their will with primroses—­
Change them to golden money, or little flames
To burn up those who do them any wrong.

Maire Bruin.

I had no sooner flung them by the door
Than the wind cried and hurried them away.

Bridget Bruin.

May God have mercy on us!

Maire Bruin.

The good people
Will not be lucky to the house this year,
But I am glad that I was courteous to them,
For are not they, likewise, children of God?

Father Hart.

No, child; they are the children of the fiend,
And they have power until the end of Time,
When God shall fight with them a great pitched battle
And hack them into pieces.

Maire Bruin.

He will smile,
Father, perhaps, and open his great door,

Father Hart.

Did but the lawless angels see that door
They would fall, slain by everlasting peace;
And when such angels knock upon our doors
Who goes with them must drive through the same storm.

[A knock at the door. Maire Bruin opens it and then goes to the
dresser and fills a porringer with milk and hands it through the door
and takes it back empty and closes the door.

MAIRE BRUIN.

A little queer old woman cloaked in green
Who came to beg a porringer of milk.

BRIDGET BRUIN.

The good people go asking milk and fire
Upon May Eve—­Woe on the house that gives
For they have power upon it for a year. 
I knew you would bring evil on the house

MAURTEEN BRUIN.

Who was she?

MAIRE BRUIN.

Both the tongue and face were strange.

MAURTEEN BRUIN.

Some strangers came last week to Clover Hill;
She must be one of them.

BRIDGET BRUIN.

I am afraid.

MAURTEEN BRUIN.

The priest will keep all harm out of the house.

FATHER HART.

The Cross will keep all harm out of the house
While it hangs there.

MAURTEEN BRUIN.

Come, sit beside me, colleen,
And cut away your dreams of discontent,
For I would have you light up my last days
Like a bright torch of pine, and when I die
I will make you the wealthiest hereabout;
For hid away where nobody can find
I have a stocking full of silver and gold.

BRIDGET BRUIN.

You are the fool of every pretty face,
And I must pinch and pare that my son’s wife
May have all kinds of ribbons for her head.