Responsibilities Part 2

BEGGAR TO BEGGAR CRIED

'Time to put off the world and go somewhere And find my health again in the sea air,'

Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck, 'And make my soul before my pate is bare.'

'And get a comfortable wife and house To rid me of the devil in my shoes,'

Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck, 'And the worse devil that is between my thighs.'

'And though I'd marry with a comely la.s.s, She need not be too comely--let it pa.s.s,'

Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck, 'But there's a devil in a looking-gla.s.s.'

'Nor should she be too rich, because the rich Are driven by wealth as beggars by the itch,'

Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck, 'And cannot have a humorous happy speech.'

'And there I'll grow respected at my ease, And hear amid the garden's nightly peace,'

Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck, 'The wind-blown clamor of the barnacle-geese.'

THE WELL AND THE TREE

'The Man that I praise,'

Cries out the empty well, 'Lives all his days Where a hand on the bell Can call the milch-cows To the comfortable door of his house.

Who but an idiot would praise Dry stones in a well?'

'The Man that I praise,'

Cries out the leafless tree, 'Has married and stays By an old hearth, and he On naught has set store But children and dogs on the floor.

Who but an idiot would praise A withered tree?'

RUNNING TO PARADISE

As I came over Windy Gap They threw a halfpenny into my cap, For I am running to Paradise; And all that I need do is to wish And somebody puts his hand in the dish To throw me a bit of salted fish: And there the king _is_ but as the beggar.

My brother Mourteen is worn out With skelping his big brawling lout, And I am running to Paradise; A poor life do what he can, And though he keep a dog and a gun, A serving maid and a serving man: And there the king _is_ but as the beggar.

Poor men have grown to be rich men, And rich men grown to be poor again, And I am running to Paradise; And many a darling wit's grown dull That tossed a bare heel when at school, Now it has filled an old sock full: And there the king _is_ but as the beggar.

The wind is old and still at play While I must hurry upon my way, For I am running to Paradise; Yet never have I lit on a friend To take my fancy like the wind That n.o.body can buy or bind: And there the king _is_ but as the beggar.

THE HOUR BEFORE DAWN

A one-legged, one-armed, one-eyed man, A bundle of rags upon a crutch, Stumbled on windy Cruachan Cursing the wind. It was as much As the one st.u.r.dy leg could do To keep him upright while he cursed.

He had counted, where long years ago Queen Maeve's nine Maines had been nursed, A pair of lapwings, one old sheep And not a house to the plain's edge, When close to his right hand a heap Of grey stones and a rocky ledge Reminded him that he could make, If he but s.h.i.+fted a few stones, A shelter till the daylight broke.

But while he fumbled with the stones They toppled over; 'Were it not I have a lucky wooden s.h.i.+n I had been hurt'; and toppling brought Before his eyes, where stones had been, A dark deep hole in the rock's face.

He gave a gasp and thought to run, Being certain it was no right place But the h.e.l.l Mouth at Cruachan That's stuffed with all that's old and bad, And yet stood still, because inside He had seen a red-haired jolly lad In some outlandish coat beside A ladle and a tub of beer, Plainly no phantom by his look.

So with a laugh at his own fear He crawled into that pleasant nook.

Young Red-head stretched himself to yawn And murmured, 'May G.o.d curse the night That's grown uneasy near the dawn So that it seems even I sleep light; And who are you that wakens me?

Has one of Maeve's nine brawling sons Grown tired of his own company?

But let him keep his grave for once I have to find the sleep I have lost.'

And then at last being wide awake, 'I took you for a brawling ghost, Say what you please, but from day-break I'll sleep another century.'

The beggar deaf to all but hope Went down upon a hand and knee And took the wooden ladle up And would have dipped it in the beer But the other pushed his hand aside, 'Before you have dipped it in the beer That sacred Goban brewed,' he cried, 'I'd have a.s.surance that you are able To value beer--I will have no fool Dipping his nose into my ladle Because he has stumbled on this hole In the bad hour before the dawn.

If you but drink that beer and say I will sleep until the winter's gone, Or maybe, to Midsummer Day You will sleep that length; and at the first I waited so for that or this-- Because the weather was a-cursed Or I had no woman there to kiss, And slept for half a year or so; But year by year I found that less Gave me such pleasure I'd forgo Even a half hour's nothingness, And when at one year's end I found I had not waked a single minute, I chose this burrow under ground.

I will sleep away all Time within it: My sleep were now nine centuries But for those mornings when I find The lapwing at their foolish cries And the sheep bleating at the wind As when I also played the fool.'

The beggar in a rage began Upon his hunkers in the hole, 'It's plain that you are no right man To mock at everything I love As if it were not worth the doing.

I'd have a merry life enough If a good Easter wind were blowing, And though the winter wind is bad I should not be too down in the mouth For anything you did or said If but this wind were in the south.'

But the other cried, 'You long for spring Or that the wind would s.h.i.+ft a point And do not know that you would bring, If time were suppler in the joint, Neither the spring nor the south wind But the hour when you shall pa.s.s away And leave no smoking wick behind, For all life longs for the Last Day And there's no man but c.o.c.ks his ear To know when Michael's trumpet cries That flesh and bone may disappear, And souls as if they were but sighs, And there be nothing but G.o.d left; But I alone being blessed keep Like some old rabbit to my cleft And wait Him in a drunken sleep.'

He dipped his ladle in the tub And drank and yawned and stretched him out.

The other shouted, 'You would rob My life of every pleasant thought And every comfortable thing And so take that and that.' Thereon He gave him a great pummelling, But might have pummelled at a stone For all the sleeper knew or cared; And after heaped the stones again And cursed and prayed, and prayed and cursed: 'Oh G.o.d if he got loose!' And then In fury and in panic fled From the h.e.l.l Mouth at Cruachan And gave G.o.d thanks that overhead The clouds were brightening with the dawn.

THE PLAYER QUEEN

(_Song from an Unfinished Play_)

My mother dandled me and sang, 'How young it is, how young!'

And made a golden cradle That on a willow swung.

'He went away,' my mother sang, 'When I was brought to bed,'

And all the while her needle pulled The gold and silver thread.

She pulled the thread and bit the thread And made a golden gown, And wept because she had dreamt that I Was born to wear a crown.

'When she was got,' my mother sang, 'I heard a sea-mew cry, And saw a flake of the yellow foam That dropped upon my thigh.'

How therefore could she help but braid The gold into my hair, And dream that I should carry The golden top of care?

THE REALISTS