I am.  Lavra Con!  Con speaks at last!  I don’t ask you, Pat, whether you remember Maen, who was born dumb, and had for his tutors Ferkelne the bard and Crafting the harper, at pleasant Dinree:  he was grandson of Leary Lore who was basely murdered by his brother Cova, and Cova spared the dumb boy, thinking a man without a tongue harmless, as fools do:  being one of their savings-bank tricks, to be repaid them, their heirs, executors, administrators, and assigns at compound interest, have no fear.  So one day Maen had an insult put on him; and ’twas this for certain:  a ruffian fellow of the Court swore he couldn’t mention the name of his father; and in a thundering fury Maen burst his tongue-tie, and the Court shouted Lavra Maen:  and he had to go into exile, where he married in the middle of delicious love-adventures the beautiful Moira through the cunning of Craftine the harper.  There’s been no harper in my instance but plenty of ruffians to swear I’m too comfortable to think of my country.’  The captain holloaed.  ’Do they hear that?  Lord! but wouldn’t our old Celtic fill the world with poetry if only we were a free people to give our minds to ’t, instead of to the itch on our backs from the Saxon horsehair shirt we’re forced to wear.  For, Pat, as you know, we’re a loving people, we’re a loyal people, we burn to be enthusiastic, but when our skins are eternally irritated, how can we sing?  In a freer Erin I’d be the bard of the land, never doubt it.  What am I here but a discontented idle lout crooning over the empty glories of our isle of Saints!  You feel them, Pat.  Phil’s all for his British army, his capabilities of British light cavalry.  Write me the history of the Enniskillens.  I’ll read it.  Aha, my boy, when they ’re off at the charge!  And you’ll oblige me with the tale of Fontenoy.  Why, Phil has an opportunity stretching forth a hand to him now more than halfway that comes to a young Irishman but once in a century:  backed by the entire body of the priesthood of Ireland too! and if only he was a quarter as full of the old country as you and I, his hair would stand up in fire for the splendid gallop at our head that’s proposed to him.  His country’s gathered up like a crested billow to roll him into Parliament; and I say, let him be there, he ’s the very man to hurl his gauntlet, and tell ’m, Parliament, so long as you are parliamentary, which means the speaking of our minds, but if you won’t have it, then-and it ’s on your heads before Europe and the two Americas.  We’re dying like a nun that ’d be out of her cloister, we’re panting like the wife who hears of her husband coming home to her from the field of honour, for that young man.  And there he is; or there he seems to be; but he’s dead:  and the fisherman off the west coast after dreaming of a magical haul, gets more fish than disappointment in comparison with us when we cast the net for Philip.  Bring tears of vexation at the emptiness we pull back for our pains.