I will not know when I am dead If sun or moon is overhead; I'll stretch out flat without a sound Inside a box beneath the ground, And never rise again to see Branches lifting on a tree, Nor hear the song the finches sing In the spring. I'll not, while sunny ages go, Lift a hand or wag a toe; But in a wooden box will be Hidden for eternity From sea and sun, from sight and sound, From touch of people, voice of friend, From all that makes my heart to bound, Denying such an end: It is so strange--I wonder why People die! THE ROCKY ROAD TO DUBLIN THE PATRIOT'S BED When a son you shall desire, Pray to water and to fire; But when you would have a daughter, Pray to fire and then to water. GRAFTON STREET At four o'clock, in dainty talk, Lords and lovely ladies walk, With a gentle dignity, From the Green to Trinity. And at five o'clock they take, In a Café, tea and cake, Then they call a carriage, and Drive back into fairyland. PORTOBELLO BRIDGE Silver stars shine peacefully, The Canal is silver, the Poplars bear with modest grace Gossamers of silver lace, And the turf bank wears with glee Black and silver filigree. YORK STREET If in winter you shall drive Birds from crumbs, you shall not thrive; But if you feed them, they will fly To sing it sweetly on the sky. So throw up the window, and Scatter with a lavish hand, Taking care you do not spill Flower-pots from the window-sill, Singing, "Ireland shall be free From the centre to the sea"; Singing bravely once again, "We are Dan O'Connell's Men." THE FIFTEEN ACRES I cling and swing On a branch, or sing Through the cool, clear hush of Morning, O: Or fling my wing On the air, and bring To sleepier birds a warning, O: That the night's in flight, And the sun's in sight, And the dew is the grass adorning, O: And the green leaves swing As I sing, sing, sing, Up by the river, Down the dell, To the little wee nest, Where the big tree fell, So early in the morning, O. I flit and twit In the sun for a bit When his light so bright is shining, O: Or sit and fit My plumes, or knit Straw plaits for the nest's nice lining, O: And she with glee Shows unto me Underneath her wings reclining, O: And I sing that Peg Has an egg, egg, egg, Up by the oat-field, Round the mill, Past the meadow, Down the hill, So early in the morning, O.