THE STORM IS STILL, THE RAIN HATH CEASED

The storm is still, the rain hath ceased To vex the beauty of the east: A linnet singeth in the wood His hermit song of grat.i.tude.

So shall I sing when life is done To greet the glory of the sun; And cloud and star and stream and sea Shall dance for very ecstasy!

SCARE-THE-CROWS

Twopence a day for scaring crows-- Tho' the rain beats and the wind blows!

The scholars think I've little wit, But, G.o.d! I've got my share of it.

Why does the gorbing land-shark Leave ploughed rigs for the green park?

Where little's to find, and nothing's to eat But rabbits' droppings and pheasants' meat.

He knows better than come my way Between the mouth and the tail of day.

For one lick of my hurding wattle Would lay him out like a showman's bottle!

And the thoughts that rise in my crazed head When the cloud is low and the wind's dead.

Where you see only clay and stones I see swords and blanching bones... .

But I'll leave you now--it's gone six, And the smoke is curling over the ricks.

And it's hardly like that the land-shark Will trouble the furrows after dark.

A CRADLE-SONG

Sleep, white love, sleep, A cedarn cradle holds thee, And twilight, like a silver-woven coverlid, Enfolds thee.

Moon and star keep charmed watch Upon thy lying; Water plovers thro' the dusk Are tremulously crying.

Sleep, white love mine, Till day doth shine.

Sleep, white love, sleep, The daylight wanes, and deeper Gathers the blue darkness O'er the cradle of the sleeper.

Cliodhna's curachs, carmine-oared, On Loch-da-linn are gleaming; Blind bats flutter thro' the night, And carrion birds are screaming.

Sleep, white love mine, Till day doth shine.

Sleep, white love, sleep, The holy mothers, Anne and Mary, Sit high in heaven, dreaming On the seven ends of Eire.

Brigid sits beside them, Spinning lamb-white wool on whorls, Singing fragrant songs of love To little naked boys and girls.

Sleep, white love mine, Till day doth shine.

TWINE THE MAZES THRO' AND THRO'

Twine the mazes thro' and thro'

Over beach and margent pale; Not a bawn appears in view, Not a sail!

Round about!

In and out!

Thro' the stones and sandy bars To the music of the stars!

The asteroidal fire that dances Nightly in the northern blue, The brightest of the boreal lances, Dances not so light as you, Cliodhna!

Dances not so light as you.

THE FIGHTING-MAN

A fighting-man he was, Guts and soul; His blood as hot and red As that on Cain's hand-towel.

A copper-skinned six-footer, Hewn out of the rock.

Who would stand up against His hammer-knock?

Not a sinner-- No, and not one dared!

Giants showed clean heels When his arm was bared.

I've seen him swing an anvil Fifty feet, Break a bough in two, And tear a twisted sheet.

And the music of his roar-- Like oaks in thunder cleaving; Lips foaming red froth, And flanks heaving.

G.o.d! a goodly man, A Gael, the last Of those that stood with Dan On Mullach-Maist!

MY MOTHER HAS A WEE RED SHOE

My mother has a wee red shoe-- She bought it off a bacach-man; And all the neighbours say it's true He stole it off a Leath-brogan.

Bacach-man, bacach-man, Where did you get it?

Faith now, says he, In my leather wallet!

My father has an arrow-head-- He begged it off poor Peig na Blath; And Mor, the talking-woman, said She found it in a fairy rath.

Peig na Blath, Peig na Blath, Where did you get it?

Faith now, says she, In my wincey jacket!