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Sleep on, sleep on, my Kathlane dear,
Yet dost thou dream thy true love's here,
The birds sing sweet, the morning breaks,
Though sleep is fled, poor Dermot wakes,
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. Kathlane !-upon my conscience, I'll-yes, I'll rouse
Dear Kathlane, you no doubt
Find sleep how very sweet 'tis :
I post away,
To have with you a bit of play.
Good morrow to your nightcap.
[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?
Dar. Sure it's only 1.
Kat. What, Dermot ?
Dar. Yes I am-Darby.
Kat. I'm coming down.
Dar. I thought I'd bring her down'; I'm a nice
Enter KATHLANE from the cottage, R.
Kat. (R.) Where are you, my dear Dermot ? Dur. Comes forward, L.] "Good morrow to your [Sings. nightcap." 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 come 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, will not have you.
Kat. No; as I hope for man, I won't.
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.
Kat. Do, Darby; and then you may whistle for me.
Since love is the plan,
I'll love, if I can,
But first let me tell you what sort of a man,—
And in dress spruce and neat;
No matter how tall, so he's over five feet:
His eyes I'll think pretty,
If sparkling with pleasure whenever we meet.
Though gentle he be,
His man he should see,
Yet never be conquer'd by any but me.
In a glass a hob-nob,
Yet drink of his reason his noddle ne'er rob.
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, man, with your conceit and your non
Dar. My nonsense! Oh, very well: you say that to me, do you?
Kat. To be sure, I do.
Dar. Then marry hang me if I don't-me
Kat. What-what 'ill you do?
Dar. Do? why, I'll tell 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 mor
Out of my sight, or I'll box your ears.
Once sweet as honey.
No, Kate, I'm your humble bee.
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.
In courtship funny, &c.
[Exeunt Kathlane into cottage-Darby, L.
Enter FITZROY, R. U. 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.
The twins of Latona, so kind to my boon,
Arise to partake of the chase,
And Sol lends a ray to chaste Dian's fair moon,
For the sport I delight in, the bright queen of Love
While Pan breaks his chanter, and skulks in the grove,
The dogs are uncoupled, and sweet is their cry,
Yet flies, till, entangled in fear and in doubt,
Surrounded by foes, he prepares for the 'fray,
With antlers erected, awhile stands at bay,
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
Fit. Why, father, if you must peep into my rent-roll, I fancy you'll find it something above two thousand a 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?
F. Luke. Her religion and her country.
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 countryman, let him be born where he will.
F. Luke. Just my thoughts, sir; I don't mind a man's