_Blogg_ Strange fleering things Are working in my blood. I’ll tell you this: The other night I went down Magger’s Lane, And saw a woman there. Stood still she was, Eating out of a paper cold wet tripe, And drinking from a bottle. When I came Close up to her, the clouds slid from the moon; I saw her plain. Her greasy shawl slipt back: Skinny and small she was. Her matted hair Hung down about her face, but her two eyes Burnt through like forest fires. She had a look Of foreign parts, wild lands where witches thrive-- _Snavel_ O crimini! These are the tales for me. _Blogg_ She lookt at me, shook back her hair and smiled. The tripe slid noiselessly out of the paper-- A sudden gleam and it was gone. She paid No heed, but held the bottle out to me And spoke. Her foreign tongue made fiddlers’ tunes Not words to me; but then all women’s words At sometime are but tunes to fill their men With moonlit madness. By now the chill air To me came more like warmed old ale: my head Was humming round. I grabbed the bottle neck And drank deep, while the woman smiled and smiled, But spoke no word. It was a witches’ brew. We plunged into the night that now was lit With dancing fires, and roared like a great sea-- Etc., Etc. THE LATER MANNER OF MR W. B. YEATS Because the fairies died in ’Ninety-nine A queen or two, a beggar or a fool Now serve the turn of this slow craft of mine; Old Paudeen’s rags cover the three-legged stool Of ancient prophecy. A host of faces, Foolish as dust, now mouth the reed-born song At Clooth-na-bare and other windy places Of three quaint syllables. It is a wrong Not to be borne. What poet shall put the blame Upon me that I now love best to sing And dream my dream of him that had no name Yet suddenly confronted the High King, And cried: _Sisters and brothers have I none, Yet this man’s father is my father’s son?_ A SONG: NOT IN THE COLLECTED POEMS OF MR ALFRED NOYES Fairies in the Forest, now the moon is mellow, Dancing as they never danced through all the dreams of men; While I sit in the firelight, like any other fellow, Writing little lyrics with a fountain-pen: _Poetry like a paint-box, red and blue and yellow;_ _Songs about the Homeland: God save the King!_ Scent of the wild thyme from the earth is springing, Drifting like a galleon is the golden moon; Hear the fairy voices, singing ever singing; Faintly from the greenwood, I can hear them croon: _Never mind the sense of it, if the verse is ringing!_ _Never mind how thin it is, keep to the tune!_