And when you’re walking out the way From Bangor to Belmullet, You’ll see a flat cross on a stone Where men choked Danny’s gullet. PATCH-SHANEEN Shaneen and Maurya Prendergast Lived west in Carnareagh, And they’d a cur-dog, cabbage plot, A goat, and cock of hay. He was five foot one or two, Herself was four foot ten, And he went travelling asking meal Above through Caragh Glen. She’d pick her bag of carrageen Or perries through the surf, Or loan an ass of Foxy Jim To fetch her creel of turf. Till on one windy Samhain night, When there’s stir among the dead, He found her perished, stiff and stark, Beside him in the bed. And now when Shaneen travels far From Droum to Ballyhyre The women lay him sacks or straw, Beside the seed of fire. And when the grey cocks crow and flap, And winds are in the sky, “Oh, Maurya, Maurya, are you dead?” You’ll hear Patch-Shaneen cry. ON AN ISLAND You’ve plucked a curlew, drawn a hen, Washed the shirts of seven men, You’ve stuffed my pillow, stretched the sheet, And filled the pan to wash your feet, You’ve cooped the pullets, wound the clock, And rinsed the young men’s drinking crock; And now we’ll dance to jigs and reels, Nailed boots chasing girls’ naked heels, Until your father’ll start to snore, And Jude, now you’re married, will stretch on the floor. BEG-INNISH Bring Kateen-beug and Maurya Jude To dance in Beg-Innish, And when the lads (they’re in Dunquin) Have sold their crabs and fish, Wave fawny shawls and call them in, And call the little girls who spin, And seven weavers from Dunquin, To dance in Beg-Innish. I’ll play you jigs, and Maurice Kean, Where nets are laid to dry, I’ve silken strings would draw a dance From girls are lame or shy; Four strings I’ve brought from Spain and France To make your long men skip and prance, Till stars look out to see the dance Where nets are laid to dry. We’ll have no priest or peeler in To dance in Beg-Innish; But we’ll have drink from M’riarty Jim Rowed round while gannets fish, A keg with porter to the brim, That every lad may have his whim, Till we up sails with M’riarty Jim And sail from Beg-Innish. EPITAPH _After reading Ronsard’s lines from Rabelais_ If fruits are fed on any beast Let vine-roots suck this parish priest, For while he lived, no summer sun Went up but he’d a bottle done, And in the starlight beer and stout Kept his waistcoat bulging out. Then Death that changes happy things Damned his soul to water springs. THE PASSING OF THE SHEE _After looking at one of A. E.’s pictures_ Adieu, sweet Angus, Maeve, and Fand, Ye plumed yet skinny Shee, That poets played with hand in hand To learn their ecstasy.