The Mountainy Singer

And eats the dung of the roads,
Mocking the journeymen
As they pass by with their loads.

Look at his little face —
As grey as wool is grey —
And the cast in his green eye,
So wild and far away.

Does he see Magh-meala?
Is his breath human breath?
Are his thoughts of the hidden things
Untouched by time and death?

Hanging there by the half-door,
Dangling his devil’s foot,
Stock-still on the threshold,
As if he had taken root!

I SEE ALL LOVE IN LOWLY THINGS

I see all love in lowly things,
No less than in the lusts of kings:
All beauty, shape and comeliness,
All valour, strength and gentleness,
All genius, wit and holiness.

Out of corruption comes the flower,
The corn is kindred with the clay;
The plough-hand is a hand of power,
Nobler than gold, brighter than day.

Then let the leper lift his head,
The cripple dance, the captive sing,
The beggar reap and eat his bread —
He is no baser than a king!

’TIS PRETTY TAE BE IN BAILE-LIOSAN

’Tis pretty tae be in Baile-liosan,
’Tis pretty tae be in green Magh-luan;
’Tis prettier tae be in Newtownbreda,
Beeking under the eaves in June.
The cummers are out wi’ their knitting and spinning,
The thrush sings frae his crib on the wa’,
And o’er the white road the clachan caddies
Play at their marlies and goaling-ba’.

O, fair are the fields o’ Baile-liosan,
And fair are the faes o’ green Magh-luan;
But fairer the flowers o’ Newtownbreda,
Wet wi’ dew in the eves o’ June.
’Tis pleasant tae saunter the clachan thoro’
When day sinks mellow o’er Dubhais hill,
And feel their fragrance sae softly breathing
Frae croft and causey and window-sill.

O, brave are the haughs o’ Baile-liosan,
And brave are the halds o’ green Magh-luan;
But braver the hames o’ Newtownbreda,
Twined about wi’ the pinks o’ June.
And just as the face is sae kindly withouten,
The heart within is as guid as gold —
Wi’ new fair ballants and merry music,
And cracks cam’ down frae the days of old.

’Tis pretty tae be in Baile-liosan,
’Tis pretty tae be in green Magh-luan;
’Tis prettier tae be in Newtownbreda,
Beeking under the eaves in June.
The cummers are out wi’ their knitting and spinning,
The thrush sings frae his crib on the wa’,
And o’er the white road the clachan caddies
Play at their marlies and goaling-ba’.

CIARAN, THE MASTER OF HORSES AND LANDS

Ciaran, the master of horses and lands,
Once had no more than the horn on his hands.

But Ciaran is rich now, and Ciaran is great,
And rides with the air of a squire of estate.

O Christ! and to see the man up on the back
Of a thoroughbred stallion, a bay or a black!

There’s not a horsebreeder from Banna to Laoi
Can handle the snaffle so pretty as he!

And Ciaran, for all, has the wit of a child,
A heart just as soft, and an eye just as mild.

No maker of ballads puts curse at his door:
He handsels the singer, and harbours the poor.

For Ciaran, the master of horses and lands,
Once had no more than the horn on his hands.

DEEP WAYS AND DRIPPING BOUGHS