to be as peaceable as children picking
strawberries in the grass. I've a mind to change
the tongue of the people to the language of the
Greeks, that no farmer will be grumbling over a
halfpenny Independent, but be following the plough
in full content, giving out Homer and the praises
of the ancient world!

_Flannery_: If you make the farmers content you
will make the world content.

_Rock_: You will, when you'll bring the sun from
Greece to ripen our little lock of oats!

_Conan_: So I will drag Ireland from its moorings
till I'll bring it to the middling sea that has no ebb
or flood!

_Rock_: You will do well to put a change on the
college that harboured you, and that left you so
much of folly.

_Conan_: I'll do that! I'll be in College Green
before the dawn is white--no but before the night
is grey! It is to Dublin I will bring my spell, for
I ever and always heard it said what Dublin will
do to-day Ireland will do to-morrow! (_Sings_.)

"Let Erin remember the days of old
Ere her faithless sons betrayed her--
When Malachy wore the collar of gold
Which he won from her proud invader--
When her kings with standards of green unfurl'd,
Led the Red-Branch knights to danger;
Ere the emerald gem of the western world
Was set in the crown of a stranger."

_Rock_: And maybe you'll tell us now by what
means you will do all this?

_Conan_: Go out of the house and I will tell you
in the by and bye.

_Rock_: That is what I was thinking. You are
talking nothing but lies.

_Conan_: I tell you that power is not far from
where you stand! But I will let no one see it only
myself.

_Flannery_: There might be some truth in it.
There are some say enchantments never went out
of Ireland.

_Conan_: It is a spell, I say, that will change
anything to its contrary. To turn it upon a snail,
there is hardly a greyhound but it would overtake;
but a hare it would turn to be the slowest thing in
the universe; too slow to go to a funeral.

_Rock_: I'll believe it when I'll see it.

_Conan_: You could see it if I let you look in
this hiding-hole.

_Rock_: Good-morrow to you!

_Conan_: Then you will see it, for I'll raise up
the stone. (_Kneels_.)

_Rock_: It to be anything it is likely a pot of
sovereigns.

_Flannery_: It might be the harp of Angus.

_Rock_: I see no trace of it.

_Conan_: There is something hard! It should
likely be a silver trumpet or a hunting-horn of gold!

_Rock_: Give me a