I put the sky into my pocket,And the sea into my locket,And into my breeches-bandI put the land.
So I was trotting off to share,Among my comrades in the lair,Our profits, when a peeler cameAnd took my name.
And now I'm in the County Gaol!Will anybody be my bail?Will anybody be my bailAnd take me from the County Gaol?
The man who has and does not giveShall break his neck, and cease to live;But he who gives without a careShall gather rubies from the air.
The lark shall never come to sayTo a gombeen-man, "Good day,"And the lark shall never cryTo a kindly man, "Good-bye."
See the greedy gombeen-manTaking everything he canFrom man and woman, dog and cat—And the lark does not like that.
I walked out in my Coat of Pride,I looked about on every side,And said the mountains should not beJust where they were, and that the seaWas badly placed, and that the beechShould be an oak—and then from eachI turned in dignity as ifThey were not there: I sniffed a sniff,And climbed upon my sunny shelf,And sneezed a while, and scratched myself.
A Dublin man will frown when heHears a tale of villainy;But when a kindness you relate,He swings and whistles on the gate.
In Dublin town the people seeGorgeous clouds sail gorgeously,They are finer, I declare,Than the clouds of anywhere.
A swirl of blue and red and green,A stream of blinding gold, a sheenFrom silver hill and pearly ridgeComes each evening on the bridge.
So when you walk in a field, look down,Lest you tramp on a daisy's crown,But in a city look always highAnd watch the beautiful clouds go by.
Inside a soap shop, down a lane,A big bee buzzed on a window-pane,
Climbing the cold glass up and down;Bee, what brought you into town?
You are tired and hungry and scarce alive,Poor old Shaggy-Tail! where's your hive?
Listen! if but women wereHalf as kind as they are fair,There would be an end to allMiseries that do befall.
Cloud and wind would run togetherIn a dance of sunny weather,And the happy trees would throwGifts to travellers below.
Then the lion, meek and mild,With the lamb would, side by side,Couch him friendly, and would beInnocent of enmity.
Then the Frozen Pole would go,Tossing off his fields of snow,And would shake delighted feetWith the girls of George's Street.
These, if women only wereHalf as kind as they are fair.
Through the air,Everywhere, the rain is falling;Brawling on house and tree:On every place that you can seeThe rain drops go;The roofs are wet, the walls, the ground below.
Midnight has come;Now all the people stretch them blind and dumbEach in a bedSave I, who sit and listen overheadUnto the rainSplashing upon the roof and window-pane.
Midnight! and ICan get no sleep, nor can the sky.
The hill is bare: I only findThe grass, the sky, and one small treeTossing wildly on the wind;And that is all there is to see:A tree, a hill, a wind, a skyWhere nothing ever passes by.
Come all ye happy children, andGather round me hand in hand,Dancing to the merry cry,"See the Robbers Passing By."
Past the Castle we will danceTo the Mansion House, and pranceBack by George's Street and cry,"See the Robbers Passing By."
Gather then ye children allInto ranks processional,Marching to the merry cry,"See the Robbers Passing By."
Shepherd! while the lambs do feed,And you rest beneath a tree,Pipe upon an oaten reedMerrily and merrily.
Should it rain do not forbear—Rain comes from the happy sky—Tune us now a quiet airTill the shower passes by.
Back the sun will come in gold!Pipe away, my dear, untilEvening brings the lambs to fold—You may weep then if you will.
Silence comes upon the night,Gone is all the cheerful day,The moon has disappeared from sight,Every star has gone away.
Sinking through the void, and thenceDisappearing, star and sky,In the stern and black immenseThat has blinded every eye.
Silence crouches on the land,In the street a shadow liesCloaked in velvet wrappings, andWith a mask upon her eyes.
Anonymous and terribleMother of the primal ray,Only night because thou artIn thyself excess of day.
When a Dublin man shall say,"Give me a little bread, I pray,"If you do not give him breadYou will be hungry when he is fed.
And let no priest or magistrateScowl upon the poor man's plate,Asking him the question slyTo which no one can reply.
The wind stood up and gave a shout;He whistled on his fingers, andKicked the withered leaves aboutAnd thumped the branches with his hand,And said he'd kill, and kill, and kill,And so he will, and so he will.
As I stood at the doorSheltered out of the wind,Something flew inWhich I hardly could find.
In the dim, gloomy doorwayI searched till I foundA dry withered leafLying down on the ground.
With thin, pointed clawsAnd a dry dusty skin,—Sure a hall is no placeFor a leaf to be in!
Oh where is your tree,And your summer and all,Poor dusty leafWhistled into a hall?
Grey clouds on the tinted sky,A drifting moon, a quiet breezeDrooping mournfully to cryIn the branches of the trees.
The crying wind, the sighing trees,The ruffled stars, the darkness fallingDown the sky, and on the breezeA belated linnet calling.
Unfortunates, on the bare tree!I mourn for yeThat have no place to house,But on those winter-white cold boughsTo sit,(How far apart ye sit)And broodIn this wide, wintry solitudeThat has no song at all to hearten it.
Fly away, little birds!Fly away to Spain,Stay there all the winterThen come back again;Come back in the summerWhen the leaves are thick;Little weeny cold birdsFly away quick.
Pacing slowly down the roadBlack horses go, with load on loadOf Dublin people dead, and theyWill be covered up in clay.
Ere their friends go home, each manWill shake his head, and drain a canTo Dublin people we will meetNot again in Grafton Street.
When no flower is nigh, you mightSpy a weed with deep delight;So, when far from saints and bliss,God might give a sin a kiss.
In the winter children goWalking in the fields of snowWhere there is no grass at all,And the top of every wall,Every fence, and every treeIs as white as white can be.
Pointing out the way they came,(Every one of them the same)All across the fields there bePrints in silver filigree;And their mothers find them soBy the footprints in the snow.
The mountains stand and stare around,They are far too proud to speak;Altho' they're rooted in the ground,Up they go, peak after peak,Beyond the tallest tree, and stillSoaring over house and hillUntil you'd think they'd never stopGoing up, top over top,Into the clouds—Still I markThat a sparrow or a larkFlying just as high, can singAs if he'd not done anything.
I think the mountains ought to beTaught a little modesty.
He who locks a gate doth closePity's heart against his woes;But who opens one shall findGod is standing just behind.
I saw the moon so broad and brightSailing high on a frosty night:
And the air swung far and far betweenThe silver disc and the orb of green:
While here and there a wisp of whiteCloud-film swam on the misty light:
And crusted thickly on the sky,High and higher and yet more high,
Were golden star-points dusted throughThe great, wide, silent vault of blue:
Then I said to me—God is goodAnd the world is fair—and where I stood
I knelt me down and bent my head,And said my prayers, and went to bed.
THE END
Printed byR. & R. CLARK, LIMITED,Edinburgh.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
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