The Mountainy Singer Part 8

THE DAWN WHITENESS

The dawn whiteness.

A bank of slate-grey cloud lying heavily over it.

The moon, like a hunted thing, dropping into the cloud.

THE DWARF

Look at him now, the son, And the churchyard twist in his foot, Standing there by his mother's door, As if he had taken root!

She crossed a grave, they say, On a black day in spring, And bore him in the seventh month-- A poor, misshapen thing.

Kneeling down in the dark She travailed without a cry, And gave him the mothering kiss Between the earth and the sky.

He licks cuckoo-spittle, they say, And eats the dung of the roads, Mocking the journeymen As they pa.s.s by with their loads.

Look at his little face-- As grey as wool is grey-- And the cast in his green eye, So wild and far away.

Does he see Magh-meala?

Is his breath human breath?

Are his thoughts of the hidden things Untouched by time and death?

Hanging there by the half-door, Dangling his devil's foot, Stock-still on the threshold, As if he had taken root!

I SEE ALL LOVE IN LOWLY THINGS

I see all love in lowly things, No less than in the l.u.s.ts of kings: All beauty, shape and comeliness, All valour, strength and gentleness, All genius, wit and holiness.

Out of corruption comes the flower, The corn is kindred with the clay; The plough-hand is a hand of power, n.o.bler than gold, brighter than day.

Then let the leper lift his head, The cripple dance, the captive sing, The beggar reap and eat his bread-- He is no baser than a king!

'TIS PRETTY TAE BE IN BAILE-LIOSAN

'Tis pretty tae be in Baile-liosan, 'Tis pretty tae be in green Magh-luan; 'Tis prettier tae be in Newtownbreda, Beeking under the eaves in June.

The c.u.mmers are out wi' their knitting and spinning, The thrush sings frae his crib on the wa', And o'er the white road the clachan caddies Play at their marlies and goaling-ba'.

O, fair are the fields o' Baile-liosan, And fair are the faes o' green Magh-luan; But fairer the flowers o' Newtownbreda, Wet wi' dew in the eves o' June.

'Tis pleasant tae saunter the clachan thoro'

When day sinks mellow o'er Dubhais hill, And feel their fragrance sae softly breathing Frae croft and causey and window-sill.

O, brave are the haughs o' Baile-liosan, And brave are the halds o' green Magh-luan; But braver the hames o' Newtownbreda, Twined about wi' the pinks o' June.

And just as the face is sae kindly withouten, The heart within is as guid as gold-- Wi' new fair ballants and merry music, And cracks cam' down frae the days of old.

'Tis pretty tae be in Baile-liosan, 'Tis pretty tae be in green Magh-luan; 'Tis prettier tae be in Newtownbreda, Beeking under the eaves in June.

The c.u.mmers are out wi' their knitting and spinning, The thrush sings frae his crib on the wa', And o'er the white road the clachan caddies Play at their marlies and goaling-ba'.

CIARAN, THE MASTER OF HORSES AND LANDS

Ciaran, the master of horses and lands, Once had no more than the horn on his hands.

But Ciaran is rich now, and Ciaran is great, And rides with the air of a squire of estate.

O Christ! and to see the man up on the back Of a thoroughbred stallion, a bay or a black!

There's not a horsebreeder from Banna to Laoi Can handle the snaffle so pretty as he!

And Ciaran, for all, has the wit of a child, A heart just as soft, and an eye just as mild.

No maker of ballads puts curse at his door: He handsels the singer, and harbours the poor.

For Ciaran, the master of horses and lands, Once had no more than the horn on his hands.

DEEP WAYS AND DRIPPING BOUGHS

Deep ways and dripping boughs, The fog falling drearily; Cowherds calling on their cows, And I crying wearily, Wearily, wearily, out-a-door, Houseless, hearthless, coatless, kindless, Poorest of the wandering poor.

I am the beggar Christ-- Christ that calmed the castling flood!

Cross and thorn have not sufficed To punish me as you would; But out-a-door in wind and rain, Houseless, hearthless, coatless, kindless, You keep me wandering in pain.

NIGHT, AND I TRAVELLING

Night, and I travelling.

An open door by the wayside, Throwing out a shaft of warm yellow light.

A whiff of peat-smoke; A gleam of delf on the dresser within; A woman's voice crooning, as if to a child.