Two nights ago, at Carrick-orus churchyard,

      A herdsman met a man who had no mouth,

      Nor eyes, nor ears; his face a wall of flesh;

      He saw him plainly by the light of the moon.

      Look out, and tell me if your father's coming.

      Mother!

      What is it?

      In the bush beyond,

      There are two birds – if you can call them birds —

      I could not see them rightly for the leaves.

      But they've the shape and colour of horned owls

      And I'm half certain they've a human face.

      Mother of God, defend us!

      They're looking at me.

      What is the good of praying? father says.

      God and the Mother of God have dropped asleep.

      What do they care, he says, though the whole land

      Squeal like a rabbit under a weasel's tooth?

      You'll bring misfortune with your blasphemies

      Upon your father, or yourself, or me.

      I would to God he were home – ah, there he is.

      What was it kept you in the wood? You know

      I cannot get all sorts of accidents

      Out of my mind till you are home again.

      I'm in no mood to listen to your clatter.

      Although I tramped the woods for half a day,

      I've taken nothing, for the very rats,

      Badgers, and hedgehogs seem to have died of drought,

      And there was scarce a wind in the parched leaves.

      Then you have brought no dinner.

      After that

      I sat among the beggars at the cross-roads,

      And held a hollow hand among the others.

      What, did you beg?

      I had no chance to beg,

      For when the beggars saw me they cried out

      They would not have another share their alms,

      And hunted me away with sticks and stones.

      You said that you would bring us food or money.

      What's in the house?

      A bit of mouldy bread.

      There's flour enough to make another loaf.

      And when that's gone?

      There is the hen in the coop.

      My curse upon the beggars, my curse upon them!

      And the last penny gone.

      When the hen's gone,

      What can we do but live on sorrel and dock,

      And dandelion, till our mouths are green?

      God, that to this hour's found bit and sup,

      Will cater for us still.

      His kitchen's bare.

      There were five doors that I looked through this day

      And saw the dead and not a soul to wake them.

      Maybe He'd have us die because He knows,

      When the ear is stopped and when the eye is stopped,

      That every wicked sight is hid from the eye,

      And all fool talk from the ear.

      Who's passing there?

      And mocking us with music?

      A young man plays it,

      There's an old woman and a lady with him.

      What is the trouble of the poor to her?

      Nothing at all or a harsh radishy sauce

      For the day's meat.

      God's pity on the rich.

      Had we been through as many doors, and seen

      The dishes standing on the polished wood

      In the wax candle light, we'd be as hard,

      And there's the needle's eye at the end of all.

      My curse upon the rich.

      They're coming here.

      Then down upon that stool, down quick, I say,

      And call up a whey face and a whining voice,

      And let your head be bowed upon your knees.

      Had I but time to put the place to rights.

      God save all here. There is a certain house,

      An old grey castle with a kitchen garden,

      A cider orchard and a plot for flowers,

      Somewhere among these woods.

      We know it, lady.

      A place that's set among impassable walls

      As though world's trouble could not find it out.

      It may be that we are that trouble, for we —

      Although we've wandered in the wood this hour —

      Have lost it too, yet I should know my way,

      For I lived all my childhood in that house.

      Then you are Countess Cathleen?

      And this woman,

      Oona, my nurse, should have remembered it,

      For we were happy for a long time there.

      The