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May peace possess thy breast;
Depriv'd of peace and rest ?
[Exit, R. Re-enter DARBY, L. Dar. What a dull dog that is ! Ah, poor Dermot! ha, ha! why, such a song couldn't wake an owl out of his sleep, let alone a pretty girl that's dreaming of I. Katblane !-upon my conscience, I'll yes, I'll rouse her.
Find sleep how very sweet ’tis :
This morning gay,
I post away,
On two legs rid
Along to bid,
With whiskey, ale, and cider,
Her anger rose,
And, sour as sloes,
Yet here I've rid,
Along to bid
The daisy, and the vi'let,
They'll tempt you sure to spoil it.
Young Sal and Bell
I've pleas'd so well-
So here I've rid
Along to bid
[Kathlane opens the cottage door. Dar. Ay, there she is-Oh, I'm the boy for it. Kat. Is that Dermot ?
Dar. [Hiding under the penthouse.] O dear, she takes me for Dermot, he, he, he !
Kat. Who's there?
[Aside. Kat. I'm coming down.
[Retires. Dar. I thought I'd bring her down; I'm a nice marksman.
Enter KATALANE from the cottage, R. Kat. (R.) Where are you, my dear Dermot ?
Dur. (Comes forward, L.] “Good morrow to your nightcap.
[Sings. Kat. (Starting.] Darby! Now hang you for an impudent fellow.
Dar. Then hang me about your neck, my sweet Kathlane.
Kat. It's a fine thing that people can't take their rest of a morning, but you must coine roaring under their windows.
Dar. Now, what need you be so cross with a body, when you know I love you, too?
Kat. Well, let me alone, Darby; for, once for all, I will not have you.
Dar. Ha, ha, ha, ha! hope for man, and yet won't have me,
Kat. Yes, but I tell you what sort of a man ; then look into the river, and see if you're he.
Dur. And, if not-I'll pop in head foremost.
Since love is the plan,
I'll love, if I can,
In address how complete,
And in dress spruce and neat ;
Nor dull, nor too witty,
His eyes I'll think pretty,
Though gentle he be,
His man he should see,
In a song bear a bob,
In a glass a hob-nob,
This is my fancy:
If such a man can see, I'm his, if he's mine,--until then I am free. Dar. So, then, you won't have me? Kat. No, that I won't. Dar. Why, I'm a better match for you than Dermot. Kat No.
Dar. No ? Hav'nt I every thing comfortable about me? Cows, sheep, geese, and turkeys for you to look after in the week-days, and a pretty pad for you to ride to chapel on a Sunday: a nice little cabin for you to live in, and a neat bit of a potatoe garden for you to walk in; and for a husband I'm as pretty a lad as you'd meet with of a long summer's day.
Kat. Get along-don't talk to me of your geese and your turkeys, inan, with your conceit and your nonsense.
Dar. My nonsense! Oh, very well: you say that to me,
do you? Kat. To be sare, I do. Dar. Then marry hang me if I don'tKat. What--what 'ill you do? Dar. Do? why, I'll-teil the priest of you. Kat. Ah, do. Do your worst, you ninney-hammer.
Dar. I'm a ninney-hammer oh, very well. I tell you what, Kathlane I'll say no moru
Kat. Out of my sight, or I'll box your ears.
In courtship funny.
Once sweet as boney. Kat.
You drone. Dar. No, Kate, I'm your bumble bee. Kat. Go dance your dogs with your fiddle de dee,
For a sprightly lad is the man for me. Kat. Like sweet milk turn'd, now to me seems love. Dar. The fragrant rose does a nettle prove. Kat. Sour curds I taste, though sweet cream I chose. Dar. And with a flower I sting my nose. Kat.
In courtship funny, &c. [Exeunt Kathlane into cottage-Darby, L.
Enter FITZROY, R. J. E. Fitz. Ay, here's Father Luke's house: I doubt if his charming niece is up yet. [Looks at his watch.] I shall be back before the family are stirring. The beauty and freshness of the morning exhilirates and delights.
Arise to partake of the chase,
And a smile to the smiles of her face.
With myrtles my brow shall adorn,
Excelled by the sound of the horn
The dogs are uncoupled, and sweet is their cry,
His sentence he hears on the gale,
Yet flies, till, entangled in fear and in doubt,
His courage and constancy fail.
Despair taking place of his fear,
The dogs, &c.
Fit. Oh, here comes the priest, her uncle ; and now for his final answer, which must determine my happiness.
Enter FATHER LUKE.
Fit. Good morning to you,
sir, F. Luke. And a good morrow, and a hundred and a thousand good morrows to you, worthy sir.
Fit. As many thanks to you, my reverend sir.
F. Luke. True, sir, I am reverend, because I'm the priest of the parish. Bless you, sir, but you're an early riser!
Fit. Why, you must imagine that the pillow has no great charms for one whose heart can take little rest till lulled to peace by your friendly benediction.-Oh! Father Luke, your charming niece
F. Luke. My niece-you told me of that, but never told me your fortune, --so it's gone quite out of my memory.
Fit. Why, father, if you must peep into my rent-roll, I fancy you'll find it something above two thousand á year.
F. Luke. Two thousand !--You shall have my niece: but there's two things which perhaps you have not consider'd on.
Fit. What are those ?
Fit. My dear sir, be assured I am incapable of an illiberal prejudice against any one, for not having first breathed the same air with me, or for worshipping the same deity in another manner. We are common children of one parent, and the honest man who thinks with moral rectitude, and acts according to his thoughts, is my countryınan, let him be born where he will.
F. Luke. Just my thoughts, sir; I don't mind a man's