A DROVER

To Meath of the pastures,
From wet hills by the sea,
Through Leitrim and Longford,
Go my cattle and me.

I hear in the darkness
Their slipping and breathing-
I name them the bye-ways
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 walk 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.

THE FURROW AND THE HEARTH

I

STRIDE the hill, sower,
Up to the sky-ridge,

Flinging the seed,
Scattering, exultant!
Mouthing great rhythms
To the long sea beats
On the wide shore, behind
The ridge of the hillside.

Below in the darkness-
The slumber of mothers-
The cradles at rest-
The fire-seed sleeping
Deep in white ashes!

Give to darkness and sleep:

O sower, O seer!

Give me to the Earth.

With the seed I would enter.
O! the growth thro' the silence
From strength to new strength;
Then the strong bursting forth
Against primal forces,

To laugh in the sunshine,
To gladden the world!

II

Who will bring the red fire
Unto a new hearth?

Who will lay the wide stone
On the waste of the earth?

Who is fain to begin
To build day by day?

To raise up his house
Of the moist, yellow clay?

There's clay for the making

Moist in the pit,

There are horses to trample

The rushes thro' it.

Above where the wild duck

Arise up and fly,

There one may build

To the wind and the sky.

There are boughs in the forest To pluck young and green, O'er them thatch of the crop Shall be heavy and clean.

I speak unto him

Who in dead of the night
Sees the red streaks

In the ash deep and white,

The Furrow and the Hearth

While around him he hears

Men stir in their rest,

And stir of the child

That is close to the breast!

He shall arise,

He shall go forth alone.
Lay stone on the earth
And bring fire to the stone.

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