_Widow._ Oh! what should you know, dear, o' the matter?

_Owen._ Only having eyes and ears like another.

_Widow._ Then what hinders him to speak?

_Owen._ It's bashfulness only, mother. Don't you know what that is?

_Widow._ I do, dear. It's a woman should know that best. And it is not
Mabel, nor a daughter of mine, nor a sister of yours, Owen, should be more
forward to understand than the man is to speak--was the man a prince.

_Owen._ Mother, you are right; but I'm not wrong neither. And since I'm to
say no more, I'm gone, mother.

[_Exit OWEN._

_Widow._ (_alone_) Now who could blame that boy, whatever he does or says?
It's all heart he is, and wouldn't hurt a fly, except from want of thought.
But, stay now, I'm thinking of them soldiers that is in town. (_Sighs_)
Then I didn't sleep since ever they come; but whenever I'd be sinking to
rest, starting, and fancying I heard the drum for Owen to go. (_A deep
groaning sigh._) Och! and then the apparition of Owen in regimentals was
afore me!

_Enter OWEN, dancing and singing,_

"Success to my brains, and success to my tongue!
Success to myself, that never was wrong!"