(to Nora) And now, mavourneen, you will not again mistake me for a Saxon, will you? (To others.) It is an ever-burning shame to me that I do not speak with the brogue which is my birthright. More - it is an ever-burning injustice! For had not the grasping Government of England purchased my father's dilapidated estate, to serve, after extensive repairs, as a summer residence for their Viceroy, my parents would not have been lured to the luxurious lap of London, where I, their child, was taught by alien nurses to lisp a tyrant tongue! Within those gates lies my father's fine estate, wrested from him by the tempting offer of a rapacious Government!

Shame!

There rise my father's chimneys, soiled with Saxon smoke, fouled by the fuel that prepares the banquets of a Saxon Viceroy!

Shame! Shame!

May I speak to your honour?

My honour is my countrymen's. If you are a countryman --

Devil a doubt! Blind Murphy's never seen a town!

And it's Blind Fiddlers we've been from father to son for more generations than I can remember. But it's ourselves (who ought to be your tenantry) that share the injustice with you in the matter of the brogue, or the want of it. It's the Lord Lieutenant forces us to speak Irish with an English accent.

Is it possible?

It is that. For what with his free classes for English Elocution and Deportment, it's the Irish brogue and other characteristics that he tramples under his feet by settin' his face against 'em!

Bad cess to him!