to twist a hay-rope till he is outside, and then we will shut
the door on him.

SHEAMUS. It's easy to say, but not easy to do. He will say to
you, "Make a hay-rope yourself."

SHEELA. We will say then that no one ever saw a hay-rope made,
that there is no one at all in the house to make the beginning of it.

SHEAMUS. But will _he_ believe that we never saw a hay-rope?

SHEELA. He believe it, is it? He'd believe anything; he'd
believe that himself is king over Ireland when he has a glass taken, as
he has now.

SHEAMUS. But what excuse can we make for saying we want a
hay-rope?

MAURYA. Can't you think of something yourself, Sheamus?

SHEAMUS. Sure, I can say the wind is rising, and I must bind
the thatch, or it will be off the house.

SHEELA. But he'll know the wind is not rising if he does but
listen at the door. You must think of some other excuse, Sheamus.

SHEAMUS. Wait, I have a good idea now; say there is a coach
upset at the bottom of the hill, and that they are asking for a hay-rope
to mend it with. He can't see as far as that from the door, and he won't
know it's not true it is.

MAURYA. That's the story, Sheela. Now, Sheamus, go among the
people and tell them the secret. Tell them what they have to say, that
no one at all in this country ever saw a hay-rope, and put a good skin
on the lie yourself. (SHEAMUS _goes from person to person
whispering to them, and some of them begin laughing._ _The piper has
begun playing. Three or four couples rise up._)

HANRAHAN (_after looking at them for a couple of minutes_).
Whisht! Let ye sit down! Do ye call that dragging, dancing? You are
tramping the floor like so many cattle. You are as heavy as bullocks, as
awkward as asses. May my throat be choked if I would not sooner be
looking at as many lame ducks hopping on one leg through the house.
Leave the floor to Oona ni Regaun and to me.

ONE OF THE MEN GOING TO DANCE. And for what would we leave the
floor to you?

HANRAHAN. The swan of the brink of the waves, the royal
phoenix, the pearl of the white breast, the Venus amongst the women,
Oona ni Regaun, is standing up with me, and any place she rises up, the
sun and the moon bow to her, and so shall ye yet. She is too handsome,
too sky-like for any other woman to be near her. But wait a while!
Before I'll show you how the Connacht boy can dance, I will give you the
poem I made on the star of the province of Munster, on Oona ni Regaun.
Get up, O sun among w