s, to be a holy
terror of cleanness and a scold.

_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 yoursel