It is the night of the Easter Rising in Dublin. The city’s streets
I can’t help thinkin’ every shot fired’ll be fired at Jack, an’ every shot fired at Jack’ll be fired at me. What do I care for th’ others? I can think only of me own self. . . . An’ there’s no woman gives a son or a husband to be killed — if they say it, they’re lyin’, lyin’ against God, Nature, an’ against themselves! . . . One blasted hussy at a barricade told me to go home an’ not be thryin’ to dishearten th’ men. . . . That I wasn’t worthy to bear a son to a man that was out fightin’ for freedom … I clawed at her, an’ smashed her in th’ face till we were separated. . . . I was pushed down th’ street, an’ I cursed them — cursed the rebel ruffians an’ the Volunteers that had dhragged me ravin’ mad into th’ sthreets to seek me husband!
Sean O’Casey, The Plough and the Stars, George Braziller, 1954, pp. 220-221.
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