Father Hart

I never saw her read a book before, What can it be?

MAURTEEN (to SHAWN)

What are you waiting for? You must not shake it when you draw the cork; It's precious wine, so take your time about it.

(To Priest.) (SHAWN goes.)

There was a Spaniard wrecked at Ocris Head, When I was young, and I have still some bottles. He cannot bear to hear her blamed; the book Has lain up in the thatch these fifty years; My father told me my grandfather wrote it, And killed a heifer for the binding of it-- But supper's spread, and we can talk and eat It was little good he got out of the book, Because it filled his house with rambling fiddlers, And rambling ballad-makers and the like. The griddle-bread is there in front of you. Colleen, what is the wonder in that book, That you must leave the bread to cool? Had I Or had my father read or written books There were no stocking stuffed with yellow guineas To come when I am dead to Shawn and you.