The Complete Works. William Butler Yeats

[To other PUPILS.]

      Give me some true answer,

      For on that day we spoke about the Court,

      And said that all that was insulted there

      The world insulted, for the Courtly life,

      Being the first comely child of the world,

      Is the world’s model. How shall I answer him?

      Can you not give me some true argument?

      I will not tempt him with a lying one.

      YOUNGEST PUPIL.

      O, tell him that the lovers of his music

      Have need of him.

      SEANCHAN.

      But I am labouring

      For some that shall be born in the nick o’ time,

      And find sweet nurture, that they may have voices,

      Even in anger, like the strings of harps;

      And how could they be born to majesty

      If I had never made the golden cradle?

      YOUNGEST PUPIL.

       [Throwing himself at SEANCHAN’S feet.]

      Why did you take me from my father’s fields?

      If you would leave me now, what shall I love?

      Where shall I go? What shall I set my hand to?

      And why have you put music in my ears,

      If you would send me to the clattering houses?

      I will throw down the trumpet and the harp,

      For how could I sing verses or make music

      With none to praise me, and a broken heart?

      SEANCHAN.

      What was it that the poets promised you,

      If it was not their sorrow? Do not speak.

      Have I not opened school on these bare steps,

      And are not you the youngest of my scholars?

      And I would have all know that when all falls

      In ruin, poetry calls out in joy,

      Being the scattering hand, the bursting pod,

      The victim’s joy among the holy flame,

      God’s laughter at the shattering of the world.

      And now that joy laughs out, and weeps and burns

      On these bare steps.

      YOUNGEST PUPIL.

      O master, do not die!

      OLDEST PUPIL.

      Trouble him with no useless argument.

      Be silent! There is nothing we can do

      Except find out the King and kneel to him,

      And beg our ancient right.

      For here are some

      To say whatever we could say and more,

      And fare as badly. Come, boy, that is no use.

      [Raises YOUNGEST PUPIL.

      If it seem well that we beseech the King,

      Lay down your harps and trumpets on the stones

      In silence, and come with me silently.

      Come with slow footfalls, and bow all your heads,

      For a bowed head becomes a mourner best.

      [They lay harps and trumpets down one by one, and then go out very solemnly and slowly, following one another. Enter MAYOR, TWO CRIPPLES, and BRIAN, an old servant. The mayor, who has been heard, before he came upon the stage, muttering ‘Chief Poet,’ ‘Ireland,’ etc., crosses in front of SEANCHAN to the other side of the steps. BRIAN takes food out of basket. The CRIPPLES are watching the basket. The MAYOR has an Ogham stick in his hand.

      MAYOR.

       [As he crosses.]

      ‘Chief Poet,’ ‘Ireland,’ ‘Townsman,’ ‘Grazing land,’

      Those are the words I have to keep in mind—

      ‘Chief Poet,’ ‘Ireland,’ ‘Townsman,’ ‘Grazing land.’

      I have the words. They are all upon the Ogham.

      ‘Chief Poet,’ ‘Ireland,’ ‘Townsman,’ ‘Grazing land.’

      But what’s their order?

      [He keeps muttering over his speech during what follows.

      FIRST CRIPPLE.

      The King were rightly served

      If Seanchan drove his good luck away.

      What’s there about a king, that’s in the world

      From birth to burial like another man,

      That he should change old customs, that were in it

      As long as ever the world has been a world?

      SECOND CRIPPLE.

      If I were king I would not meddle with him,

      For there is something queer about a poet.

      I knew of one that would be making rhyme

      Under a thorn at crossing of three roads.

      He was as ragged as ourselves, and yet

      He was no sooner dead than every thorn tree

      From Inchy to Kiltartan withered away.

      FIRST CRIPPLE.

      The King is but a fool!

      MAYOR.

      I am getting ready.

      FIRST CRIPPLE.

      A poet has power from beyond the world,

      That he may set our thoughts upon old times,

      And lucky queens and little holy fish

      That rise up every seventh year——

      MAYOR.

      Hush! hush!

      FIRST CRIPPLE.

      To cure the crippled.

      MAYOR.

      I am half ready now.

      BRIAN.

      There’s not a mischief I’d begrudge the King

      If it were any other——

      MAYOR.

      Hush! I am ready.

      BRIAN.

      That died to get it. I have brought out the food,

      And if my master will not eat of it,

      I’ll home and get provision for his wake,

      For that’s no great way off. Well, have your say,

      But don’t be long about it.

      MAYOR.

       [Goes close to SEANCHAN.]

      Chief Poet of Ireland,

      I am the Mayor of your own town Kinvara,

      And I am come to tell you that the news

      Of this great trouble with the King of Gort

      Has plunged us in deep sorrow—part for you,

      Our honoured townsman, part for