He stood up with her then, and led her out by the hand, and some of the young men were vexed, and some began mocking at his ragged coat and his broken boots. But he took no notice, and Oona took no notice, but they looked at one another as if all the world belonged to themselves alone. But another couple that had been sitting together like lovers stood out on the floor at the same time, holding one another’s hands and moving their feet to keep time with the music. But Hanrahan turned his back on them as if angry, and in place of dancing he began to sing, and as he sang he held her hand, and his voice grew louder, and the mocking of the young men stopped, and the fiddle stopped, and there was nothing heard but his voice that had in it the sound of the wind. And what he sang was a song he had heard or had made one time in his wanderings on Slieve Echtge, and the words of it as they can be put into English were like this: 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. And while he was singing it Oona moved nearer to him, and the colour had gone from her cheek, and her eyes were not blue now, but grey with the tears that were in them, and anyone that saw her would have thought she was ready to follow him there and then from the west to the east of the world. But one of the young men called out: ‘Where is that country he is singing about? Mind yourself, Oona, it is a long way off, you might be a long time on the road before you would reach to it.’ And another said: ‘It is not to the Country of the Young you will be going if you go with him, but to Mayo of the bogs.’ Oona looked at him then as if she would question him, but he raised her hand in his hand, and called out between singing and shouting: ‘It is very near us that country is, it is on every side; it may be on the bare hill behind it is, or it may be in the heart of the wood.’ And he said out very loud and clear: ‘In the heart of the wood; oh, death will never find us in the heart of the wood. And will you come with me there, Oona?’ he said. But while he was saying this the two old women had gone outside the door, and Oona’s mother was crying, and she said: ‘He has put an enchantment on Oona. Can we not get the men to put him out of the house?’ ‘That is a thing you cannot do,’ said the other woman, ‘for he is a poet of the Gael, and you know well if you would put a poet of the Gael out of the house, he would put a curse on you that would wither the corn in the fields and dry up the milk of the cows, if it had to hang in the air seven years.’