Three Voices together Hurry to bless the hands that play, The mouths that speak, the notes and strings, O masters of the glittering town! O! lay the shrilly trumpet down, Though drunken with the flags that sway Over the ramparts and the towers, And with the waving of your wings. First Voice Maybe they linger by the way; One gathers up his purple gown; One leans and mutters by the wall; He dreads the weight of mortal hours. Second Voice O no, O no, they hurry down Like plovers that have heard the call. Third Voice O, kinsmen of the Three in One, O, kinsmen bless the hands that play. The notes they waken shall live on When all this heavy history's done. Our hands, our hands must ebb away. Three Voices together The proud and careless notes live on But bless our hands that ebb away. THE RIDER FROM THE NORTH. From the play of The Country of the Young. There's many a strong farmer Whose heart would break in two If he could see the townland That we are riding to; Boughs have their fruit and blossom, At all times of the year, Rivers are running over With red beer and brown beer. An old man plays the bagpipes In a golden and silver wood, Queens, their eyes blue like the ice, Are dancing in a crowd. The little fox he murmured, 'O what is the world's bane?' The sun was laughing sweetly, The moon plucked at my rein; But the little red fox murmured, 'O do not pluck at his rein, He is riding to the townland That is the world's bane.' When their hearts are so high, That they would come to blows, They unhook their heavy swords From golden and silver boughs; But all that are killed in battle Awaken to life again; It is lucky that their story Is not known among men. For O the strong farmers That would let the spade lie, For their hearts would be like a cup That somebody had drunk dry. The little fox he murmured, 'O what is the world's bane?' The sun was laughing sweetly, The moon plucked at my rein; But the little red fox murmured, 'O do not pluck at his rein, He is riding to the townland That is the world's bane.' Michael will unhook his trumpet From a bough overhead, And blow a little noise When the supper has been spread. Gabriel will come from the water With a fish tail, and talk Of wonders that have happened On wet roads where men walk, And lift up an old horn Of hammered silver, and drink Till he has fallen asleep Upon the starry brink. The little fox he murmured, 'O what is the world's bane?' The sun was laughing sweetly, The moon plucked at my rein; But the little red fox murmured, 'O do not pluck at his rein, He is riding to the townland, That is the world's bane.'