PATRICK: magpie, was it you who stole the wedding ring? or what other thieving bird would steal such hope away? magpie, i am lost among the hinterland, caught among the bracken and the fern and the boys who have no name.

MARIANNE: there's no name for us.

PATRICK: still we sing.

MARIANNE: and still we sing. little boy, little boy, lost and blue, listen now, let me tell you what to do. you [bad word] on [bad word] along, alone or home between the knees of her; all among her bracken and her ferns and the boy will have a name.

BOTH: we will sing.

MARIANNE: and we will sing.

MARIANNE: one for sorrow.

PATRICK: two for joy.

MARIANNE: three for a girl.

PATRICK: four for a boy.

MARIANNE: five for silver.

PATRICK: six for gold.

MARIANNE: seven for a secret, never to be told