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The Playboy of the
There we lay bewailing
All in a prison bound. . . .

He sees Christy. Goes and shakes him drunkenly by the hand, while Pegeen and Shawn talk on the left.

MICHAEL, to Christy.

The blessing of God and the holy angels on your head, young fellow. I hear tell you're after winning all in the sports below; and wasn't it a shame I didn't bear you along with me to Kate Cassidy's wake, a fine, stout lad, the like of you, for you'd never see the match of it for flows of drink, the way when we sunk her bones at noonday in her narrow grave, there were five men, aye, and six men, stretched out retching speechless on the holy stones.

CHRISTY, uneasily, watching Pegeen.

Is that the truth?

MICHAEL.

It is, then; and aren't you a louty schemer to go burying your poor father unbeknownst when you'd a right to throw him on the crupper of a Kerry mule and drive him westwards, like holy Joseph in the days gone by, the way we could have given him a decent burial, and not have

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