There is your own house, lady.

      Why, that's true,

      And we'd have passed it without noticing.

      A curse upon it for a meddlesome house!

      Had it but stayed away I would have known

      What Queen Maeve thinks on when the moon is pinched;

      And whether now – as in the old days – the dancers

      Set their brief love on men.

      Rest on my arm.

      These are no thoughts for any Christian ear.

      I am younger, she would be too heavy for you.

      This hollow box remembers every foot

      That danced upon the level grass of the world,

      And will tell secrets if I whisper to it.

      Lift up the white knee;

      Hear what they sing,

      Those young dancers

      That in a ring

      Raved but now

      Of the hearts that brake

      Long, long ago

      For their sake.

      New friends are sweet.

      "But the dance changes.

      Lift up the gown,

      All that sorrow

      Is trodden down."

      The empty rattle-pate! Lean on this arm,

      That I can tell you is a christened arm,

      And not like some, if we are to judge by speech.

      But as you please. It is time I was forgot.

      Maybe it is not on this arm you slumbered

      When you were as helpless as a worm.

      Stay with me till we come to your own house.

      When I am rested I will need no help.

      I thought to have kept her from remembering

      The evil of the times for full ten minutes;

      But now when seven are out you come between.

      Talk on; what does it matter what you say,

      For you have not been christened?

      Old woman, old woman,

      You robbed her of three minutes peace of mind,

      And though you live unto a hundred years,

      And wash the feet of beggars and give alms,

      And climb Croaghpatrick, you shall not be pardoned.

      How does a man who never was baptized

      Know what Heaven pardons?

      You are a sinful woman.

      I care no more than if a pig had grunted.

      I am not to blame, for I had locked the gate,

      The forester's to blame. The men climbed in

      At the east corner where the elm-tree is.

      I do not understand you, who has climbed?

      Then God be thanked, I am the first to tell you.

      I was afraid some other of the servants —

      Though I've been on the watch – had been the first,

      And mixed up truth and lies, your ladyship.

      Has some misfortune happened?

      Yes, indeed.

      The forester that let the branches lie

      Against the wall's to blame for everything,

      For that is how the rogues got into the garden.

      I thought to have escaped misfortune here.

      Has any one been killed?

      Oh, no, not killed.

      They have stolen half a cart-load of green cabbage.

      But maybe they were starving.

      That is certain.

      To rob or starve, that was the choice they had.

      A learned theologian has laid down

      That starving men may take what's necessary,

      And yet be sinless.

      Sinless and a thief!

      There should be broken bottles on the wall.

      And if it be a sin, while faith's unbroken

      God cannot help but pardon. There is no soul

      But it's unlike all others in the world,

      Nor one but lifts a strangeness to God's love

      Till that's grown infinite, and therefore none

      Whose loss were less than irremediable

      Although it were the wickedest in the world.

      What are you running for? Pull off your cap,

      Do you not see who's there?

      I cannot wait.

      I am running to the world with the best news

      That has been brought it for a thousand years.

      Then get your breath and speak.

      If you'd my news

      You'd run as fast and be as out of breath.

      Such news, we shall be carried on men's shoulders.

      There's something every man has carried with him

      And thought no more about than if it were

      A mouthful of the wind; and now it's grown

      A marketable