By the winter fire we'll laugh to scorn

The frown o' famine an' scowl o' sorrow.

IV

An' whin the turf's in the haggard piled,

We'll come, plase God! with our spades and loys ;
It's busy ye'll be, then, Brigid, my child,
Fillin' the baskets behind the boys.

So shtick thim deep in Ould Ireland's clay -
It's nearly dusk, an' there's work galore;

It's time enough in the winter to play,
When the crop is safe on our cabin floor.

As long as the cows have milk to churn,
With plenty o' pyaties in ridge an' furrow,
By the winter hearth we'll laugh to scorn

The frown o' famine an' scowl o' sorrow.

I hear in the darkness

Their slipping and breathing, I name them the byways

They're to pass without heeding.

Then the wet, winding roads,

Brown bogs with black water, And my thoughts on white ships And the King o' Spain's daughter.

O farmer, strong farmer,

You can spend at the fair,

But your face you must turn

To your crops and your care!

And soldiers, red soldiers,
You've seen many lands,
But you march two by two,
And by captain's commands.

O the smell of the beasts,

The wet wind in the morn,
And the proud and hard earth
Never broken for corn!

And the crowds at the fair,
The herds, loosened and blind;
Loud words and dark faces,

And the wild blood behind.

(O strong men with your best
I would strive breast to breast;
I could quiet your herds
With my words, with my words.)

I will bring you, my kine,

Where there's grass to the knee,
But you'll think of scant croppings,
Harsh with salt of the sea.

DREAM AND SHADOW

OUR face has not the bloom I gave

My dream of you, my dream of you!
Your eyes have not her eyes' deep hue,

Nor has your hair the gold I wrought
Out of my dreams for head of her

M Bhron! I thought that dream sheen caught
From hair of you, from hair of you!
Pale lips, pale hair, 'tis not your fault:
A shadow of a dream are you!

S

R

THE BELLS

ING, little bells, tormenting tunes,

Your peal calls up my scoffs and sneers;
Lo, all the bitter words I've said

Come back and sting me while you ring.

O forest-bird, forget your songs,
No more built up with these a world
Of swaying trees and falling streams.
O forest-bird, with gold hairs bound,
Built up no more your forest-world,

With song caught from the trees and streams.

THE PLOWER

UNSET and silence; a man; around him earth savage, earth broken :

Beside him two horses, a plow !

Earth savage, earth broken, the brutes, the dawn-man there in the sunset !

And the plow that is twin to the sword, that is founder of cities !

"Brute-tamer, plow-maker, earth-breaker!

hear? There are ages between us!

Canst

Is it praying you are as you stand there, alone in the sunset ?

"Surely our sky-born gods can be nought to you, Earth-child and Earth-master !

Surely your thoughts are of Pan, or of Wotan or Dana!

"Yet why give thought to the gods? Has Pan led your brutes where they stumble ?

Has Wotan put hands to your plow or Dana numbed pain of the child-bed ?

"What matter your foolish reply, O man standing lone and bowed earthward.

Your task it is a day near its close. Give thanks to the night-giving God."

Slowly the darkness falls, the broken lands blend with the savage,

The brute-tamer stands by the brutes, by a head's breadth only above them!

A head's breadth, ay, but therein is Hell's depth and the height up to Heaven,

And the thrones of the gods, and their halls and their chariots, purples and splendours,