Juno and the Paycock

Boyle: (to Joxer, who is still outside) Come on, come on in, Joxer; she’s gone out long ago, man. If there’s nothing else to be got, we’ll furrage out a cup o’ tay, anyway. It’s the only bit I get in comfort when she’s away. ‘Tisn’t Juno should be her pet name at all, but Deirdre of the Sorras, for she’s always grousin’.

Mrs Boyle: Shovel! Ah; then, me boyo, you’d do far more work with a knife an’ fork than ever you’ll do with a shovel! If there was e’er a genuine job goin’ you’d be dh’other way about - not able to lift your arms with the pains in your legs! Your poor wife slavin’ to keep the bit in your mouth, an’ you gallivantin’ about all the day like a paycock!

Boyle: It ud be betther for a man to be dead, betther for a man to be dead.

Boyle: Chiselurs don’t care a damn now about their parents, they’re bringin’ their fathers’ grey hairs down with sorra to the grave, an’ laughin’ at it, laughin’ at it. Ah, I suppose it’s just the same everywhere - the whole worl’s in a state o’ chassis!

Bentham: Juno! What an interesting name! It reminds one of Homer’s glorious story of ancient gods and heroes.

Boyle: Yis, doesn’t it? You see, Juno was born an’ christened in June; I met her in June; we were married in June, an’ Johnny was born in June, so wan day I says to her, ‘You should ha’ been called Juno,’ an’ the name stuck to her ever since.

Boyle: He’ll never blow the froth off a pint o’ mine agen, that’s a sure thing. Johnny. . . Mary. . . you’re to keep yourselves to yourselves for the future. Juno, I’m done with Joxer. . . . I’m a new man from this out . . .

(Clasping Juno’s hand, and singing emotionally)
O, me darlin’ Juno, I will be thrue to thee;
Me own, me darlin’ Juno, you’re all the world to me.

Curtain.

The same, but the furniture is more plentiful, and of a vulgar nature. A glaringly upholstered armchair and lounge; cheap pictures and photos everywhere. Every available spot is ornamented with huge vases filled with artificial flowers. Crossed festoons of coloured paper chains stretch from end to end of ceiling. On the table is an old attaché case. It is about six in the evening, and two days after the First Act. Boyle, in his shirt-sleeves, is voluptuously stretched on the sofa; he is smoking a clay pipe. He is half asleep. A lamp is lighting on the table. After a few moments’ pause the voice of Joxer is heard singing softly outside at the door […]

Boyle: (leaping up, takes a pen in his hand and busies himself with papers) Come along, Joxer, me son, come along.

Mary: I don’t know what you wanted a gramophone for—I know Charlie hates them; he says they’re destructive of real music.

Boyle: Desthructive of music - that fella ud give you a pain in your face. All a gramophone wants is to be properly played; its thrue wondher is only felt when everythin’s quiet—what a gramophone wants is dead silence!

Bentham: It’s hard to explain in a few words: Theosophy’s founded on The Vedas, the religious books of the East. Its central theme is the existence of an all-pervading Spirit—the Life-Breath. Nothing really exists but this one Universal Life-Breath. And whatever even seems to exist separately from this Life-Breath, doesn’t really exist at all. It is all vital force in man, in all animals, and in all vegetation. This Life-Breath is called the Prawna.

Mrs Boyle: The Prawna! What a comical name!

Boyle: Prawna; yis, the Prawna. (Blowing gently through his lips) That’s the Prawna!

Mrs Tancred: Me home is gone now; he was me only child, an’ to think that he was lyin’ for a whole night stretched out on the side of a lonely counthry lane, with his head, his darlin’ head, that I often kissed an’ fondled, half hidden in the wather of a runnin’ brook. An’ I’m told he was the leadher of the ambush where me nex’ door neighbour, Mrs Mannin’, lost her Free State soldier son. An’ now here’s the two of us oul’ women, standin’ one on each side of a scales o’ sorra, balanced be the bodies of our two dead darlin’ sons.

Joxer: Sure, the house couldn’t hould them lately; an’ he goin’ about like a mastherpiece of the Free State counthry; forgettin’ their friends; forgettin’ God - wouldn’t even lift his hat passin’ a chapel! Sure they were bound to get a dhrop! An’ you really think there’s no money comin’ to him afther all?

Boyle: Oh, isn’t this a nice thing to come on top o’ me, an’ the state I’m in! A pretty show I’ll be to Joxer an’ to that oul’ wan, Madigan! Amn’t I afther goin’ through enough without havin’ to go through this!

Mrs Boyle: What you an’ I’ll have to go through’ll be nothin’ to what poor Mary’ll have to go through; for you an’ me is middlin’ old, an’ most of our years is spent; but Mary’ll have maybe forty years to face an’ handle, an’ every wan of them’ll be tainted with a bitther memory.

Boyle: Where is she? Where is she till I tell her off? I’m tellin’ you when I’m done with her she’ll be a sorry girl!

Boyle: I’m able to go no farther…. Two polis, e y…what were they doin’ here, I wondher? …Up to no good, anyhow… an’ Juno an’ that lovely daughter o’ mine with them. (Taking a sixpence from his pocket and looking at it) Wan single, solithary tanner left out of all I borreyed .... (He lets it fall.) The last o’ the Mohicans…. The blinds is down, Joxer, the blinds is down!

Boyle: (to Joxer, who is still outside) Come on, come on in, Joxer; she’s gone out long ago, man. If there’s nothing else to be got, we’ll furrage out a cup o’ tay, anyway. It’s the only bit I get in comfort when she’s away. ‘Tisn’t Juno should be her pet name at all, but Deirdre of the Sorras, for she’s always grousin’.

Mrs Boyle: Shovel! Ah; then, me boyo, you’d do far more work with a knife an’ fork than ever you’ll do with a shovel! If there was e’er a genuine job goin’ you’d be dh’other way about - not able to lift your arms with the pains in your legs! Your poor wife slavin’ to keep the bit in your mouth, an’ you gallivantin’ about all the day like a paycock!

Boyle: It ud be betther for a man to be dead, betther for a man to be dead.

Boyle: Chiselurs don’t care a damn now about their parents, they’re bringin’ their fathers’ grey hairs down with sorra to the grave, an’ laughin’ at it, laughin’ at it. Ah, I suppose it’s just the same everywhere - the whole worl’s in a state o’ chassis!

Bentham: Juno! What an interesting name! It reminds one of Homer’s glorious story of ancient gods and heroes.

Boyle: Yis, doesn’t it? You see, Juno was born an’ christened in June; I met her in June; we were married in June, an’ Johnny was born in June, so wan day I says to her, ‘You should ha’ been called Juno,’ an’ the name stuck to her ever since.

Boyle: He’ll never blow the froth off a pint o’ mine agen, that’s a sure thing. Johnny. . . Mary. . . you’re to keep yourselves to yourselves for the future. Juno, I’m done with Joxer. . . . I’m a new man from this out . . .

(Clasping Juno’s hand, and singing emotionally)
O, me darlin’ Juno, I will be thrue to thee;
Me own, me darlin’ Juno, you’re all the world to me.

Curtain.

The same, but the furniture is more plentiful, and of a vulgar nature. A glaringly upholstered armchair and lounge; cheap pictures and photos everywhere. Every available spot is ornamented with huge vases filled with artificial flowers. Crossed festoons of coloured paper chains stretch from end to end of ceiling. On the table is an old attaché case. It is about six in the evening, and two days after the First Act. Boyle, in his shirt-sleeves, is voluptuously stretched on the sofa; he is smoking a clay pipe. He is half asleep. A lamp is lighting on the table. After a few moments’ pause the voice of Joxer is heard singing softly outside at the door […]

Boyle: (leaping up, takes a pen in his hand and busies himself with papers) Come along, Joxer, me son, come along.

Mary: I don’t know what you wanted a gramophone for—I know Charlie hates them; he says they’re destructive of real music.

Boyle: Desthructive of music - that fella ud give you a pain in your face. All a gramophone wants is to be properly played; its thrue wondher is only felt when everythin’s quiet—what a gramophone wants is dead silence!

Bentham: It’s hard to explain in a few words: Theosophy’s founded on The Vedas, the religious books of the East. Its central theme is the existence of an all-pervading Spirit—the Life-Breath. Nothing really exists but this one Universal Life-Breath. And whatever even seems to exist separately from this Life-Breath, doesn’t really exist at all. It is all vital force in man, in all animals, and in all vegetation. This Life-Breath is called the Prawna.

Mrs Boyle: The Prawna! What a comical name!

Boyle: Prawna; yis, the Prawna. (Blowing gently through his lips) That’s the Prawna!

Mrs Tancred: Me home is gone now; he was me only child, an’ to think that he was lyin’ for a whole night stretched out on the side of a lonely counthry lane, with his head, his darlin’ head, that I often kissed an’ fondled, half hidden in the wather of a runnin’ brook. An’ I’m told he was the leadher of the ambush where me nex’ door neighbour, Mrs Mannin’, lost her Free State soldier son. An’ now here’s the two of us oul’ women, standin’ one on each side of a scales o’ sorra, balanced be the bodies of our two dead darlin’ sons.

Joxer: Sure, the house couldn’t hould them lately; an’ he goin’ about like a mastherpiece of the Free State counthry; forgettin’ their friends; forgettin’ God - wouldn’t even lift his hat passin’ a chapel! Sure they were bound to get a dhrop! An’ you really think there’s no money comin’ to him afther all?

Boyle: Oh, isn’t this a nice thing to come on top o’ me, an’ the state I’m in! A pretty show I’ll be to Joxer an’ to that oul’ wan, Madigan! Amn’t I afther goin’ through enough without havin’ to go through this!

Mrs Boyle: What you an’ I’ll have to go through’ll be nothin’ to what poor Mary’ll have to go through; for you an’ me is middlin’ old, an’ most of our years is spent; but Mary’ll have maybe forty years to face an’ handle, an’ every wan of them’ll be tainted with a bitther memory.

Boyle: Where is she? Where is she till I tell her off? I’m tellin’ you when I’m done with her she’ll be a sorry girl!

Boyle: I’m able to go no farther…. Two polis, e y…what were they doin’ here, I wondher? …Up to no good, anyhow… an’ Juno an’ that lovely daughter o’ mine with them. (Taking a sixpence from his pocket and looking at it) Wan single, solithary tanner left out of all I borreyed .... (He lets it fall.) The last o’ the Mohicans…. The blinds is down, Joxer, the blinds is down!