The Complete Works. William Butler Yeats

woman sleeps so hard!

      My man grew red and pale,

      And gave me money, and bade me go

      To my own place, Kinsale.

      He drove me out and shut the door,

      And gave his curse to me;

      I went away in silence,

      No neighbour could I see.

      The windows and the doors were shut,

      One star shone faint and green;

      The little straws were turnin’ round

      Across the bare boreen.

      I went away in silence:

      Beyond old Martin’s byre

      I saw a kindly neighbour

      Blowin’ her mornin’ fire.

      She drew from me my story—

      My money’s all used up,

      And still, with pityin’, scornin’ eye,

      She gives me bite and sup.

      She says my man will surely come,

      And fetch me home agin;

      But always, as I’m movin’ round,

      Without doors or within,

      Pilin’ the wood or pilin’ the turf,

      Or goin’ to the well,

      I’m thinkin’ of my baby

      And keenin’ to mysel’.

      And sometimes I am sure she knows

      When, openin’ wide His door,

      God lights the stars, His candles,

      And looks upon the poor.

      So now, ye little childer,

      Ye won’t fling stones at me;

      But gather with your shinin’ looks

      And pity Moll Magee.

THE BALLAD OF THE FOXHUNTER

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      ‘Now lay me in a cushioned chair

      And carry me, you four,

      With cushions here and cushions there,

      To see the world once more.

      ‘And some one from the stables bring

      My Dermot dear and brown,

      And lead him gently in a ring,

      And gently up and down.

      ‘Now leave the chair upon the grass:

      Bring hound and huntsman here,

      And I on this strange road will pass,

      Filled full of ancient cheer.’

      His eyelids droop, his head falls low,

      His old eyes cloud with dreams;

      The sun upon all things that grow

      Pours round in sleepy streams.

      Brown Dermot treads upon the lawn,

      And to the armchair goes,

      And now the old man’s dreams are gone,

      He smooths the long brown nose.

      And now moves many a pleasant tongue

      Upon his wasted hands,

      For leading aged hounds and young

      The huntsman near him stands.

      ‘My huntsman, Rody, blow the horn,

      And make the hills reply.’

      The huntsman loosens on the morn

      A gay and wandering cry.

      A fire is in the old man’s eyes,

      His fingers move and sway,

      And when the wandering music dies

      They hear him feebly say,

      ‘My huntsman, Rody, blow the horn,

      And make the hills reply.’

      ‘I cannot blow upon my horn,

      I can but weep and sigh.’

      The servants round his cushioned place

      Are with new sorrow wrung;

      And hounds are gazing on his face,

      Both aged hounds and young.

      One blind hound only lies apart

      On the sun-smitten grass;

      He holds deep commune with his heart:

      The moments pass and pass;

      The blind hound with a mournful din

      Lifts slow his wintry head;

      The servants bear the body in;

      The hounds wail for the dead.

THE BALLAD OF FATHER GILLIGAN

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      The old priest Peter Gilligan

      Was weary night and day;

      For half his flock were in their beds,

      Or under green sods lay.

      Once, while he nodded on a chair,

      At the moth-hour of eve,

      Another poor man sent for him,

      And he began to grieve.

      ‘I have no rest, nor joy, nor peace,

      For people die and die’;

      And after cried he, ‘God forgive!

      My body spake, not I!’

      He knelt, and leaning on the chair

      He prayed and fell asleep;

      And the moth-hour went from the fields,

      And stars began to peep.

      They slowly into millions grew,

      And leaves shook in the wind;

      And God covered the world with shade,

      And whispered to mankind.

      Upon the time of sparrow chirp

      When the moths came once more,

      The old priest Peter Gilligan

      Stood upright on the floor.

      ‘Mavrone, mavrone! the man has died,

      While I slept on the chair’;

      He roused his horse out of its sleep,

      And rode with little care.

      He rode now as he never rode,

      By rocky lane and fen;

      The sick man’s wife opened the door:

      ‘Father! you come again!’

      ‘And