HIMSELF

The houseful that we were then, you could count us by the dozens,
The wonder was that sometimes the old walls wouldn't burst:
Herself (the Lord be good to her!), the aunts and rafts of cousins,
The young folks and the children,—but Himself came first.
Master of the House he was, and well for them that knew it:
His cheeks like winter apples and his head like snow;
Eyes as blue as water when the sun of March shines through it.
And steppin' like a soldier with his stick held so.
Faith, but he could tell a tale would serve a man for wages,
Sing a song would put the joy of dancin' in two sticks;
But Saints between themselves and harm that saw him in his rages,
Blazin' and oratin' over chess and politics.
Master of the House he was, and that beyond all sayin',
Eh, the times I've heard him exhortin' from his chair
The like of any Bishop, yet snappin' off his prayin'
To put the curse on Phelan's dog for howlin' in the prayer.
The times I've seen him walkin' out like Solomon in glory,
Salutin' with great elegance the gentry he might meet;
An eye for every pretty girl, an ear for every story,
And takin' as his just deserts the middle of the street.
Master of the House, with much to love and be forgiven,—
Yet, thinkin' of Himself to-day—Himself—I see him go
With that old light step of his, across the Courts of Heaven,
His hat a little sideways and his stick held so.

THE FAIR

The pick o' seven counties, so they're tellin' me, was there,
Horses racin' on the track, and fiddles on the green,
Flyin' flags and blowin' horns and all that makes a fair,
I'm hearin' that the like of it was something never seen.
So it is they're tellin' me,
Girl dear, it may be true—
I only know the bonnet strings
Beneath your chin were blue.
I'm hearin' that the cattle came that thick they stood in rows,
And Doolan's Timmy caught the pig and Terry climbed the pole,
They're tellin' me they showed the cream of everything that grows,
And never man had eyes enough for takin' in the whole.
So it is they're tellin' me,
Girl dear, it may be so,
I only know your little gown
Was whiter than the snow.
They're tellin' me the gentry came from twenty miles about,
And him that came from Ballinsloe sang limpin' Jamesey down,
And 'twas Himself, no less, stood by to give the prizes out,
They're tellin' me you'd hear the noise from here to Dublin town.
So it is they're tellin' me,
Girl dear, the same may be,
I only know that comin' home
You gave your word to me.

HIS DANCING DAYS

Never did I find me mate for charmin' an' delightin',
Never one that had me bate for courtin' an' for fightin';—
(A white moon at the crossroads then, and Denny with the fiddle;
The parish round admirin', when I danced down the middle.)
Up the earth and down again, me like you'd not discover;
Arrah! for the times before me dancin' days were over!
Never was a moon so low it didn't find me courtin',
Never blade I couldn't show a wilder way of sportin'.
(Is it at the fair I'd be, the gentry'd troop to talk with me;
Leapin' with delight was she,—the girl I'd choose to walk with me.)
'Twas I could win the pick of them from any lad or lover;
Arrah! for the times before me dancin' days were over!
What's come to all the lads to-day,—these mournful ways they're keepin',
Grudgin' any hour to play and wastin' nights in sleepin'.
(Readin' be the chimney-place,—that dacent in their habits,
You'd sooner get a fight or song be callin' upon rabbits.)
Faith, I'd change the lot for one rejoicin', rantin' rover,
The like of me, myself, before me dancin' days were over.

SHEILA

Katie had the grand eyes and Delia had a way with her,
And Mary had the Saints' face and Maggie's waist was neat,
But Sheila had the merry heart that travelled all the day with her,
That put the laughing on her lips and dancing in her feet.
I've met with martyrs in my time, and Faith! they make the best of it,
But 'tis the uncomplaining ones that wear a sorrow long,
'Twas Sheila had the better way and that's to make a jest of it,
To call her trouble out to dance and step it with a song.
Eh, but Sheila had the laugh the like of drink to weary ones,
(I've never heard the beat of it for all I've wandered wide.)
And out of all the girls I knew the tender ones—the dreary ones,—
'Twas only Sheila of the laugh that broke her heart and died.

THE GRIEF

The heart of me's an empty thing, that never stirs at all
For Moon-shine or Spring-time, or a far bird's call.
I only know 'tis living by a grief that shakes it so,—
Like an East wind in Autumn, when the old nests blow.
Grey Eyes and Black Hair, 'tis never you I blame.
'Tis long years and easy years since last I spoke your name.
And I'm long past the knife-thrust I got at wake or fair.
Or looking past the lighted door and fancying you there.
Grey Eyes and Black Hair—the grief is never this;
I've long forgot the soft arms—the first, wild kiss.
But, Oh, girl that tore my youth,—'tis this I have to bear,—
If you were kneeling at my feet I'd neither stay nor care.

THE INTRODUCTION

I'm askin' you'll be easy for a bit, Sir,
The lad's had little but a thrush's schoolin',
The blue skies and the fields, the little whipster,
'Tis time enough for something more—(But whisper)
He'll go the better for an easy rulin'.
Herself was always for the bit of readin'
But Denny here, he's great for growin' things,
There's not a primrose that he'd not be heedin'
Herself is right 'tis graver things he's needin'
The thrush is tamer when you clip his wings.
I'd never have you spare him with the learnin',
(And, Faith, 'tis little that the lad has had),
But if above his task you'll see him turnin'
To watch the fields—'tis just the thrush's yearnin'—
I'm askin' you'll be easy with the lad.

THE STAY-AT-HOME

Comin' or goin' still they spread the news,
About America how grand it is,
The wonders that are waitin' you to choose
And gold that common that like sand it is.
"And here you stick," says they. "Like some old tree
Stuck in the bog belaboured by all seasons.
What's ailin' ye?" says they. Well, leave them be,
I have me reasons.
There's Cormac's Hugh come back with all his talk,
Spreadin' and spendin' like a king he is.
The people flockin' down the way he'll walk,
Till in the middle of a ring he is.
But where's that one whose face was like a rose
The day he went, betwixt her tears and teasin's?
Married these five years—gone where no man knows,
Faith, I've me reasons.
"A likely lad," they say. "What's ailin' you,
The gold and riches over there it is."
Sure, I'm not doubtin' what they say is true
They have me leave to hurry where it is.
'Tis I will hold the treasure that endures,
The while I'm listenin' to their talks and treasons.
Oh, Sheila girl, those two blue eyes of yours,
Faith, I've me reasons.