ish harper,
And scorn not the strains of his old withered hand,
But remember the fingers could once move sharper
To raise the merry strains of his dear native land;
It was long before the shamrock our dear isle's loved emblem.
Was crushed in its beauty 'neath the Saxon Lion's paw
I was called by the colleens of the village and valley
Bold Phelim Brady, the bard of Armagh."

_Rock_: Bad management! Look what I brought
from the Fair through minding my own property--L20
for a milch cow, and thirty for a score of
lambs!

_Mother_: L20 for a cow! Isn't that terrible
money!

_Conan_: Let you whist now! You are putting
a headache on me with all your little newses and
country chat!

(_Mother goes, the others are following_.)

_Rock_: (_Turning from door_.) It might be better
for yourself, Conan Creevey, if you had minded
business would bring profit to your hand in place
of your foreign learning, that never put a penny
piece in anyone's pocket that ever I heard. No
earthly profit unless to addle the brain and leave
the pocket empty.

_Conan_: You think yourself a great sort! Let
me tell you that my learning has power to do more
than that!

_Rock_: It's an empty mouth that has big talk.

_Conan_: What would you say hearing I had
power put in my hand that could change the entire
world? And that's what you never will have power
to do.

_Rock_: What power is that?

_Conan_:

Aristotle in the hour
He left Ireland left a power....

_Rock_: Foolishness! I never would believe in
poetry or in dreams or images, but in ready money
down. (_Jingles bag_.)

_Conan_: I tell you you'll see me getting the
victory over all Ireland!

_Rock_: You have but a cracked headpiece thinking
that will come to you.

_Conan_: I tell you it will! No end at all in the
world to what I am about to bring in!

_Rock_: It's easy praise yourself!

_Conan_: And so I am praising myself, and so will
you all be praising me when you will see all that
I will do!

_Rock_: It is what I think you got demented in
the head and in the mind.

_Conan_: It is soon the wheel will be turned and
the whole of the nation will be changed for the
best. (_Sings_.)

"Dear Harp of my country, in darkness I found thee,
The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long,
When proudly, my own Irish Harp, I unbound thee,
And gave all thy chords to light, freedom and song,
The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness