I come from Castlepatrick, and me heart is on me sleeve, And any sword or pistol boy can hit it with me leave, It shines there for an epaulette, as golden as a flame, As naked as me ancestors, as noble as me name. For I come from Castlepatrick, and me heart is on me sleeve, But a lady stole it from me on St. Gallowglass's Eve. The folk that live in Liverpool, their heart is in their boots; They go to hell like lambs, they do, because the hooter hoots. Where men may not be dancin', though the wheels may dance all day; And men may not be smokin'; but only chimneys may. But I come from Castlepatrick, and me heart is on me sleeve, But a lady stole it from me on St. Poleander's Eve. The folk that live in black Belfast, their heart is in their mouth, They see us making murders in the meadows of the South; They think a plough's a rack, they do, and cattle-calls are creeds, And they think we're burnin' witches when we're only burnin' weeds; But I come from Castlepatrick, and me heart is on me sleeve; But a lady stole it from me on St. Barnabas's Eve. The Song of the Oak The Druids waved their golden knives And danced around the Oak When they had sacrificed a man; But though the learned search and scan, No single modern person can Entirely see the joke. But though they cut the throats of men They cut not down the tree, And from the blood the saplings sprang Of oak-woods yet to be. But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood, He rots the tree as ivy would, He clings and crawls as ivy would About the sacred tree. King Charles he fled from Worcester fight And hid him in an Oak; In convent schools no man of tact Would trace and praise his every act, Or argue that he was in fact A strict and sainted bloke, But not by him the sacred woods Have lost their fancies free, And though he was extremely big He did not break the tree. But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood, He breaks the tree as ivy would, And eats the woods as ivy would Between us and the sea. Great Collingwood walked down the glade And flung the acorns free, That oaks might still be in the grove As oaken as the beams above, When the great Lover sailors love Was kissed by Death at sea. But though for him the oak-trees fell To build the oaken ships, The woodman worshipped what he smote And honoured even the chips. But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood, He hates the tree as ivy would, As the dragon of the ivy would That has us in his grips. The Road to Roundabout