Labour is hard, But it endures Like love: The land is yours: Go reap the life It gives you now, O sunbrowned master Of the plough!
The millway path looks like a wraith, The lock is black as ink, And silently in stream and sky The stars begin to blink.
I see them pass along the grass With slow and solemn tread: Aoibheall, their queen, is in between-- A corpse is at their head!
They wander on with faces wan, And dirges sad as wind. I know not, but it may be that The dead's of human kind.
The storm is still, the rain hath ceased To vex the beauty of the east: A linnet singeth in the wood His hermit song of gratitude.
So shall I sing when life is done To greet the glory of the sun; And cloud and star and stream and sea Shall dance for very ecstasy!
Twopence a day for scaring crows-- Tho' the rain beats and the wind blows!
The scholars think I've little wit, But, God! I've got my share of it.
Why does the gorbing land-shark Leave ploughed rigs for the green park?
Where little's to find, and nothing's to eat But rabbits' droppings and pheasants' meat.
He knows better than come my way Between the mouth and the tail of day.
For one lick of my hurding wattle Would lay him out like a showman's bottle!
And the thoughts that rise in my crazed head When the cloud is low and the wind's dead.
Where you see only clay and stones I see swords and blanching bones. . . .
But I'll leave you now--it's gone six, And the smoke is curling over the ricks.
And it's hardly like that the land-shark Will trouble the furrows after dark.
Sleep, white love, sleep, A cedarn cradle holds thee, And twilight, like a silver-woven coverlid, Enfolds thee. Moon and star keep charmèd watch Upon thy lying; Water plovers thro' the dusk Are tremulously crying. Sleep, white love mine, Till day doth shine.
Sleep, white love, sleep, The daylight wanes, and deeper Gathers the blue darkness O'er the cradle of the sleeper. Cliodhna's curachs, carmine-oared, On Loch-da-linn are gleaming; Blind bats flutter thro' the night, And carrion birds are screaming. Sleep, white love mine, Till day doth shine.
Sleep, white love, sleep, The holy mothers, Anne and Mary, Sit high in heaven, dreaming On the seven ends of Eire. Brigid sits beside them, Spinning lamb-white wool on whorls, Singing fragrant songs of love To little naked boys and girls. Sleep, white love mine, Till day doth shine.