O Death’s old bony finger Will never find us there In the high hollow townland Where love’s to give and to spare; Where boughs have fruit and blossom at all times of the year; Where rivers are running over With red beer and brown beer. An old man plays the bagpipes In a gold and silver wood; Queens, their eyes blue like the ice, Are dancing in a crowd. Chorus. The little fox he murmured, ‘O what of 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.’ FOOTNOTE: [D] The music as written suits my speaking voice if played an octave lower than the notation.—F.F. _I HAVE DRUNK ALE FROM THE COUNTRY OF THE YOUNG._[E] FLORENCE FARR. I have drunk ale from the Country of the Young And weep because I know all things now: I have been a hazel tree and they hung The Pilot Star and the Crooked Plough Among my leaves in times out of mind: I became a rush that horses tread: I became a man, a hater of the wind, Knowing one, out of all things, alone, that his head Would not lie on the breast or his lips on the hair Of the woman that he loves, Until he dies; Although the rushes and the fowl of the air Cry of his love with their pitiful cries. _THE SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS._ W.B.Y. I went out to the hazel wood, Because a fire was in my head, And cut and peeled a hazel wand, And hooked a berry to a thread; And when white moths were on the wing, And moth-like stars were flickering out, I dropped the berry in a stream, And caught a little silver trout. _THE HOST OF THE AIR._ A.H.B. O’Driscoll drove with a song The wild duck and the drake From the tall and tree tufted reeds Of the drear Hart Lake. FOOTNOTE: [E] To be spoken an octave lower than it would be sung.—F.F. _THE SONG OF THE OLD MOTHER._ W.B.Y. I rise in the dawn, and I kneel and blow Till the seed of the fire flicker and glow; And then I must scrub and bake and sweep Till stars are beginning to blink and peep; And the young lie long and dream in their bed Of the matching of ribbons for bosom and head, And their day goes over in idleness, And they sigh if the wind but lift a tress; While I must work because I am old, And the seed of the fire gets feeble and cold. _Printed by_ A. H. BULLEN, _at The Shakespeare Head Press, Stratford-on-Avon_. * * * * * Transcriber’s Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Page 25, stage direction, mixed case “TEIg” was changed to “TEIG” (TEIG and SHEMUS go out) Page 70, “marhsalled” changed to “marshalled” (marshalled into rude order)