I put the sky into my pocket,
And the sea into my locket,
And into my breeches-band
I put the land.
So I was trotting off to share,
Among my comrades in the lair,
Our profits, when a peeler came
And took my name.
And now I'm in the County Gaol!
Will anybody be my bail?
Will anybody be my bail
And take me from the County Gaol?
The man who has and does not give
Shall break his neck, and cease to live;
But he who gives without a care
Shall gather rubies from the air.
The lark shall never come to say
To a gombeen-man, "Good day,"
And the lark shall never cry
To a kindly man, "Good-bye."
See the greedy gombeen-man
Taking everything he can
From man and woman, dog and cat—
And the lark does not like that.
I walked out in my Coat of Pride,
I looked about on every side,
And said the mountains should not be
Just where they were, and that the sea
Was badly placed, and that the beech
Should be an oak—and then from each
I turned in dignity as if
They were not there: I sniffed a sniff,
And climbed upon my sunny shelf,
And sneezed a while, and scratched myself.
A Dublin man will frown when he
Hears a tale of villainy;
But when a kindness you relate,
He swings and whistles on the gate.
In Dublin town the people see
Gorgeous clouds sail gorgeously,
They are finer, I declare,
Than the clouds of anywhere.
A swirl of blue and red and green,
A stream of blinding gold, a sheen
From silver hill and pearly ridge
Comes each evening on the bridge.
So when you walk in a field, look down,
Lest you tramp on a daisy's crown,
But in a city look always high
And watch the beautiful clouds go by.
Inside a soap shop, down a lane,
A big bee buzzed on a window-pane,
Climbing the cold glass up and down;
Bee, what brought you into town?
You are tired and hungry and scarce alive,
Poor old Shaggy-Tail! where's your hive?
Listen! if but women were
Half as kind as they are fair,
There would be an end to all
Miseries that do befall.
Cloud and wind would run together
In a dance of sunny weather,
And the happy trees would throw
Gifts to travellers below.
Then the lion, meek and mild,
With the lamb would, side by side,
Couch him friendly, and would be
Innocent of enmity.
Then the Frozen Pole would go,
Tossing off his fields of snow,
And would shake delighted feet
With the girls of George's Street.
These, if women only were
Half as kind as they are fair.
Through the air,
Everywhere, the rain is falling;
Brawling on house and tree:
On every place that you can see
The rain drops go;
The roofs are wet, the walls, the ground below.
Midnight has come;
Now all the people stretch them blind and dumb
Each in a bed
Save I, who sit and listen overhead
Unto the rain
Splashing upon the roof and window-pane.
Midnight! and I
Can get no sleep, nor can the sky.
The hill is bare: I only find
The grass, the sky, and one small tree
Tossing wildly on the wind;
And that is all there is to see:
A tree, a hill, a wind, a sky
Where nothing ever passes by.
Come all ye happy children, and
Gather round me hand in hand,
Dancing to the merry cry,
"See the Robbers Passing By."
Past the Castle we will dance
To the Mansion House, and prance
Back by George's Street and cry,
"See the Robbers Passing By."
Gather then ye children all
Into ranks processional,
Marching to the merry cry,
"See the Robbers Passing By."
Shepherd! while the lambs do feed,
And you rest beneath a tree,
Pipe upon an oaten reed
Merrily and merrily.
Should it rain do not forbear—
Rain comes from the happy sky—
Tune us now a quiet air
Till the shower passes by.
Back the sun will come in gold!
Pipe away, my dear, until
Evening brings the lambs to fold—
You may weep then if you will.
Silence comes upon the night,
Gone is all the cheerful day,
The moon has disappeared from sight,
Every star has gone away.
Sinking through the void, and thence
Disappearing, star and sky,
In the stern and black immense
That has blinded every eye.
Silence crouches on the land,
In the street a shadow lies
Cloaked in velvet wrappings, and
With a mask upon her eyes.
Anonymous and terrible
Mother of the primal ray,
Only night because thou art
In thyself excess of day.
When a Dublin man shall say,
"Give me a little bread, I pray,"
If you do not give him bread
You will be hungry when he is fed.
And let no priest or magistrate
Scowl upon the poor man's plate,
Asking him the question sly
To which no one can reply.
The wind stood up and gave a shout;
He whistled on his fingers, and
Kicked the withered leaves about
And thumped the branches with his hand,
And said he'd kill, and kill, and kill,
And so he will, and so he will.
As I stood at the door
Sheltered out of the wind,
Something flew in
Which I hardly could find.
In the dim, gloomy doorway
I searched till I found
A dry withered leaf
Lying down on the ground.
With thin, pointed claws
And a dry dusty skin,—
Sure a hall is no place
For a leaf to be in!
Oh where is your tree,
And your summer and all,
Poor dusty leaf
Whistled into a hall?
Grey clouds on the tinted sky,
A drifting moon, a quiet breeze
Drooping mournfully to cry
In the branches of the trees.
The crying wind, the sighing trees,
The ruffled stars, the darkness falling
Down the sky, and on the breeze
A belated linnet calling.
Unfortunates, on the bare tree!
I mourn for ye
That have no place to house,
But on those winter-white cold boughs
To sit,
(How far apart ye sit)
And brood
In this wide, wintry solitude
That has no song at all to hearten it.
Fly away, little birds!
Fly away to Spain,
Stay there all the winter
Then come back again;
Come back in the summer
When the leaves are thick;
Little weeny cold birds
Fly away quick.
Pacing slowly down the road
Black horses go, with load on load
Of Dublin people dead, and they
Will be covered up in clay.
Ere their friends go home, each man
Will shake his head, and drain a can
To Dublin people we will meet
Not again in Grafton Street.
When no flower is nigh, you might
Spy a weed with deep delight;
So, when far from saints and bliss,
God might give a sin a kiss.
In the winter children go
Walking in the fields of snow
Where there is no grass at all,
And the top of every wall,
Every fence, and every tree
Is as white as white can be.
Pointing out the way they came,
(Every one of them the same)
All across the fields there be
Prints in silver filigree;
And their mothers find them so
By the footprints in the snow.
The mountains stand and stare around,
They are far too proud to speak;
Altho' they're rooted in the ground,
Up they go, peak after peak,
Beyond the tallest tree, and still
Soaring over house and hill
Until you'd think they'd never stop
Going up, top over top,
Into the clouds—
Still I mark
That a sparrow or a lark
Flying just as high, can sing
As if he'd not done anything.
I think the mountains ought to be
Taught a little modesty.
He who locks a gate doth close
Pity's heart against his woes;
But who opens one shall find
God is standing just behind.
I saw the moon so broad and bright
Sailing high on a frosty night:
And the air swung far and far between
The silver disc and the orb of green:
While here and there a wisp of white
Cloud-film swam on the misty light:
And crusted thickly on the sky,
High and higher and yet more high,
Were golden star-points dusted through
The great, wide, silent vault of blue:
Then I said to me—God is good
And the world is fair—and where I stood
I knelt me down and bent my head,
And said my prayers, and went to bed.
THE END
Printed by R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, Edinburgh.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
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