STORIES

THE Kings of Murias heard that King Atlas had to bear The World upon his back, so they sent him then and

there

The Crystal Egg that would be the Swan of Endless

Tales

That his burthen for a while might lie on his shoulderscales

Fair-balanced, while he heard the Tales the Swan poured forth

North-world Tales for the while he watched the Star of the North;

And East-world Tales he would hear in the morning swart and cool

When the Lions Nimrod spared came up from the drinking-pool;

West-world Tales would arise when he turned him with

the sun;

Then whispers of Magic Tales from Africa, his own.

But the Kings of Murias made the Crane their mes

senger

The fitful Crane whose thoughts are always frightening

her

She slipped from Islet to Isle, she sloped from foreland

to coast,

She passed through cracks in the mountains, and came over trees like a ghost;

And then fled back in dismay when she saw on the hollow

plains

The final battle between the Pigmies and the Cranes.

Where is the Crystal Egg that was sent King Atlas then? Hatched it will be one day and the Tales will be told to men

That is if the fitful Crane did not lose it threading the

Sea;

That is if it is not laid in some King's old Treasury!

THE TERRIBLE ROBBER MEN

O! I WISH the sun was bright in the sky,
And the fox was back in his den, O!
For always I'm hearing the passing by
Of the terrible robber men, O!
The terrible robber men.

O! what does the fox carry over the rye
When it's bright in the morn again, O!
And what is it making the lonesome cry
With the terrible robber men, O!
The terrible robber men.

O! I wish the sun was bright in the sky,
And the fox was back in his den, O!
For always I'm hearing the passing by
Of the terrible robber men, O!

The terrible robber men.

AN DRINAUN DONN

(From the Irish)

A hundred men think I am theirs when with them I drink ale,

But their presence fades away from me, and their high spirits fail,

When I think upon your converse kind by the meadow and the linn,

And your form smoother than the silk on the Mountain of O'Flynn.

Oh, Paddy, is it pain to you that I'm wasting night and

day,

And, Paddy, is it grief to you that I'll soon be in the clay? My first love with the winning mouth, my treasure you'll

abide,

Till the narrow coffin closes me, and the grass grows through my side.

The man who strains to leap the wall, we think him foolish still

When to his hand is the easy ditch to vault across at will: The rowan tree is fine and high, but bitter its berries

grow,

While blackberries and raspberries are on shrubs that blossom low.

An Drinaun Donn

39

Farewell, farewell, forever, to yon town amongst the

trees,

Farewell, the town that draws me, on mornings and on eves,

Oh, many's the ugly morass now, and many's the crooked road,

That lie henceforth between me and where my heart's bestowed.

And Mary, Ever Virgin, where will I turn my head! I know not where his house is built, nor where his fields are spread.

Ah, kindly was the counsel that my kinsfolk gave to me, "The hundred twists are in his heart, and the thousand tricks has he."