WHAT THE SHUILER SAID AS SHE LAY BY THE FIRE IN THE FARMER'S HOUSE I'm glad to lie on a sack of leaves For the wind would strip me bare as a tree— And I'm dazed with the wind, the rain, and the If I had only the good red gold To buy me the comfort of a roof, And under the thatch the brown of the smoke! I'd lie up in my painted room Until my hired girl would come; And when the sun had warmed my walls I'd rise up in my silks and shawls, And break my fast before the fire. I'd live my lone without clan or care, What the Shuiler Said I'd give the rambling fiddler rest, And he'd have something to tell of me Has little enough in her house, they say- O! none are safe, and none secure, And it's well for some whose bit is sure!" II I'd never grudge them the weight of their lands If I had only the good red gold To huggle between my breast and hands! A CONNACHTMAN It's my fear that my wake won't be quiet, For the good men were always my friends, In strength, in sport, and in spending, In music, in song, and in friendship, Now let Manus Joyce, my friend The old men will have their stories And the young men will stand by the coffin A Connachtman But the girls will stay near the door, And, going home in the dawning, And seldom they'll lift the voice. And then, between daybreak and dark, And between the hill and the sea, 13 Three Women, come down from the Mountain, Will raise the Keen over me. But 'tis my grief that I will not hear When the cuckoo cries in Glenart, That the wind that lifts when the sails are loosed Will never lift my heart. AN OLD WOMAN OF THE ROADS O, To have a little house! To own the hearth and stool and all! To have a clock with weights and chains I could be busy all the day Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor, My white and blue and speckled store! I could be quiet there at night The ticking clock and the shining delph! Och! but I'm weary of mist and dark, And roads where there's never a house nor bush, And tired I am of bog and road, And the crying wind and the lonesome hush! |