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Delphi Complete Poetry and Plays of W. B. Yeats (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series)

Page 31

by W. B. Yeats


  As the fox in the old fable destroyed the Spartan boy’s

  Because it proves that things both can and cannot be;

  That the swordsmen and the ladies can still keep company,

  Can pay the poet for a verse and hear the fiddle sound,

  That I am still their setvant though all are underground.

  O what of that, O what of that,

  What is there left to say?

  I came on a great house in the middle of the night,

  Its open lighted doorway and its windows all alight,

  And all my friends were there and made me welcome too;

  But I woke in an old ruin that the winds. howled through;

  And when I pay attention I must out and walk

  Among the dogs and horses that understand my talk.

  O what of that, O what of that,

  What is there left to say?

  ROGER CASEMENT

  After reading ‘The Forged Casement Diaries’ by Dr. Maloney

  I say that Roger Casement

  Did what he had to do.

  He died upon the gallows,

  But that is nothing new.

  Afraid they might be beaten

  Before the bench of Time,

  They turned a trick by forgery

  And blackened his good name.

  A perjurer stood ready

  To prove their forgery true;

  They gave it out to all the world,

  And that is something new;

  For Spring Rice had to whisper it,

  Being their Ambassador,

  And then the speakers got it

  And writers by the score.

  Come Tom and Dick, come all the troop

  That cried it far and wide,

  Come from the forger and his desk,

  Desert the perjurer’s side;

  Come speak your bit in public

  That some amends be made

  To this most gallant gentleman

  That is in quicklime laid.

  THE GHOST OF ROGER CASEMENT

  O WHAT has made that sudden noise?

  What on the threshold stands?

  It never crossed the sea because

  John Bull and the sea are friends;

  But this is not the old sea

  Nor this the old seashore.

  What gave that roar of mockery,

  That roar in the sea’s roar?

  The ghost of Roger Casement

  Is beating on the door.

  John Bull has stood for Parliament,

  A dog must have his day,

  The country thinks no end of him,

  For he knows how to say,

  At a beanfeast or a banquet,

  That all must hang their trust

  Upon the British Empire,

  Upon the Church of Christ.

  The ghost of Roger Casement

  Is beating on the door.

  John Bull has gone to India

  And all must pay him heed,

  For histories are there to prove

  That none of another breed

  Has had a like inheritance,

  Or sucked such milk as he,

  And there’s no luck about a house

  If it lack honesty.

  The ghost of Roger Casement

  Is beating on the door.

  I poked about a village church

  And found his family tomb

  And copied out what I could read

  In that religious gloom;

  Found many a famous man there;

  But fame and virtue rot.

  Draw round, beloved and bitter men,

  Draw round and raise a shout;

  The ghost of Roger Casement

  Is beating on the door.

  THE O’RAHILLY

  SING of the O’Rahilly,

  Do not deny his right;

  Sing a ‘the’ before his name;

  Allow that he, despite

  All those learned historians,

  Established it for good;

  He wrote out that word himself,

  He christened himself with blood.

  How goes the weather?

  Sing of the O’Rahilly

  That had such little sense

  He told Pearse and Connolly

  He’d gone to great expense

  Keeping all the Kerry men

  Out of that crazy fight;

  That he might be there himself

  Had travelled half the night.

  How goes the weather?

  ‘Am I such a craven that

  I should not get the word

  But for what some travelling man

  Had heard I had not heard?’

  Then on pearse and Connolly

  He fixed a bitter look:

  ‘Because I helped to wind the clock

  I come to hear it strike.’

  How goes the weather?

  What remains to sing about

  But of the death he met

  Stretched under a doorway

  Somewhere off Henry Street;

  They that found him found upon

  The door above his head

  ‘Here died the O’Rahilly.

  R.I.P.’ writ in blood.

  How goes the weather.?

  COME GATHER ROUND ME, PARNELLITES

  COME gather round me, Parnellites,

  And praise our chosen man;

  Stand upright on your legs awhile,

  Stand upright while you can,

  For soon we lie where he is laid,

  And he is underground;

  Come fill up all those glasses

  And pass the bottle round.

  And here’s a cogent reason,

  And I have many more,

  He fought the might of England

  And saved the Irish poor,

  Whatever good a farmer’s got

  He brought it all to pass;

  And here’s another reason,

  That parnell loved a lass.

  And here’s a final reason,

  He was of such a kind

  Every man that sings a song

  Keeps Parnell in his mind.

  For Parnell was a proud man,

  No prouder trod the ground,

  And a proud man’s a lovely man,

  So pass the bottle round.

  The Bishops and the party

  That tragic story made,

  A husband that had sold hiS wife

  And after that betrayed;

  But stories that live longest

  Are sung above the glass,

  And Parnell loved his countrey

  And parnell loved his lass.

  THE WILD OLD WICKED MAN

  BECAUSE I am mad about women

  I am mad about the hills,’

  Said that wild old wicked man

  Who travels where God wills.

  ‘Not to die on the straw at home.

  Those hands to close these eyes,

  That is all I ask, my dear,

  From the old man in the skies.

  Daybreak and a candle-end.

  ‘Kind are all your words, my dear,

  Do not the rest withhold.

  Who can know the year, my dear,

  when an old man’s blood grows cold? ‘

  I have what no young man can have

  Because he loves too much.

  Words I have that can pierce the heart,

  But what can he do but touch?’

  Daybreak and a candle-end.

  Then Said she to that wild old man,

  His stout stick under his hand,

  ‘Love to give or to withhold

  Is not at my command.

  I gave it all to an older man:

  That old man in the skies.

  Hands that are busy with His beads

  Can never close those eyes.’

  Daybreak and a candle-end.

  ‘Go your ways, O go your ways,

  I choose another mark,


  Girls down on the seashore

  Who understand the dark;

  Bawdy talk for the fishermen;

  A dance for the fisher-lads;

  When dark hangs upon the water

  They turn down their beds.

  Daybreak and a candle-end.

  ‘A young man in the dark am I,

  But a wild old man in the light,

  That can make a cat laugh, or

  Can touch by mother wit

  Things hid in their marrow-bones

  From time long passed away,

  Hid from all those warty lads

  That by their bodies lay.

  Dayhreak and a candle-end.

  ‘All men live in suffering,

  I know as few can know,

  Whether they take the upper road

  Or stay content on the low,

  Rower bent in his row-boat

  Or weaver bent at his loom,

  Horseman erect upon horseback

  Or child hid in the womb.

  Daybreak and a candlc-cnd.

  ‘That some stream of lightning

  From the old man in the skies

  Can burn out that suffering

  No right-taught man denies.

  But a coarse old man am I,

  I choose the second-best,

  I forget it all awhile

  Upon a woman’s breast.’

  Daybreak and a candlc-end.

  THE GREAT DAY

  HURRAH for revolution and more cannon-shot!

  A beggar upon horseback lashes a beggar on foot.

  Hurrah for revolution and cannon come again!

  The beggars have changed places, but the lash goes on.

  PARNELL

  Parnell came down the road, he said to a cheering man:

  ‘Ireland shall get her freedom and you still break stone.’

  WHAT WAS LOST

  I SING what was lost and dread what was won,

  I walk in a battle fought over again,

  My king a lost king, and lost soldiers my men;

  Feet to the Rising and Setting may run,

  They always beat on the same small stone.

  THE SPUR

  YOU think it horrible that lust and rage

  Should dance attention upon my old age;

  They were not such a plague when I was young;

  What else have I to spur me into song?

  A DRUNKEN MAN’S PRAISE OF SOBRIETY

  COME swish around, my pretty punk,

  And keep me dancing still

  That I may stay a sober man

  Although I drink my fill.

  Sobriety is a jewel

  That I do much adore;

  And therefore keep me dancing

  Though drunkards lie and snore.

  O mind your feet, O mind your feet,

  Keep dancing like a wave,

  And under every dancer

  A dead man in his grave.

  No ups and downs, my pretty,

  A mermaid, not a punk;

  A drunkard is a dead man,

  And all dead men are drunk.

  THE PILGRIM

  I FASTED for some forty days on bread and buttermilk,

  For passing round the bottle with girls in rags or silk,

  In country shawl or Paris cloak, had put my wits astray,

  And what’s the good of women, for all that they can say

  Is fol de rol de rolly O.

  Round Lough Derg’s holy island I went upon the stones,

  I prayed at all the Stations upon my matrow-bones,

  And there I found an old man, and though, I prayed all day

  And that old man beside me, nothing would he say

  But fol de rol de rolly O.

  All know that all the dead in the world about that place are stuck,

  And that should mother seek her son she’d have but little luck

  Because the fires of purgatory have ate their shapes away;

  I swear to God I questioned them, and all they had to say

  Was fol de rol de rolly O.

  A great black ragged bird appeared when I was in the boat;

  Some twenty feet from tip to tip had it stretched rightly out,

  With flopping and with flapping it made a great display,

  But I never stopped to question, what could the boatman say

  But fol de rol de rolly O.

  Now I am in the public-house and lean upon the wall,

  So come in rags or come in silk, in cloak or country shawl,

  And come with learned lovers or with what men you may,

  For I can put the whole lot down, and all I have to say

  Is fol de rol de rolly O.

  COLONEL MARTIN

  THE Colonel went out sailing,

  He spoke with Turk and Jew,

  With Christian and with Infidel,

  For all tongues he knew.

  ‘O what’s a wifeless man?’ said he,

  And he came sailing home.

  He rose the latch and went upstairS

  And found an empty room.

  The Colonel went out sailing.

  ‘I kept her much in the country

  And she was much alone,

  And though she may be there,’ he said,

  ‘She may be in the town.

  She may be all alone there,

  For who can say?’ he said.

  ‘I think that I shall find her

  In a young man’s bed.’

  The Colonel went out sailing.

  III

  The Colonel met a pedlar,

  Agreed their clothes to swop,

  And bought the grandest jewelry

  In a Galway shop,

  Instead of thread and needle

  put jewelry in the pack,

  Bound a thong about his hand,

  Hitched it on his back.

  The Colonel wcnt out sailing.

  The Colonel knocked on the rich man’s door,

  ‘I am sorry,’ said the maid,

  ‘My mistress cannot see these things,

  But she is still abed,

  And never have I looked upon

  Jewelry so grand.’

  ‘Take all to your mistress,’

  And he laid them on her hand.

  The Colonel went out sailing.

  And he went in and she went on

  And both climbed up the stair,

  And O he was a clever man,

  For he his slippers wore.

  And when they came to the top stair

  He ran on ahead,

  His wife he found and the rich man

  In the comfort of a bed.

  The Colonel went out sailing.

  The Judge at the Assize Court,

  When he heard that story told,

  Awarded him for damages

  Three kegs of gold.

  The Colonel said to Tom his man,

  ‘Harness an ass and cart,

  Carry the gold about the town,

  Throw it in every patt.’

  The Colonel went out sailing.

  VII

  And there at all street-corners

  A man with a pistol stood,

  And the rich man had paid them well

  To shoot the Colonel dead;

  But they threw down their pistols

  And all men heard them swear

  That they could never shoot a man

  Did all that for the poor.

  The Colonel went out sailing.

  VIII

  ‘And did you keep no gold, Tom?

  You had three kegs,’ said he.

  ‘I never thought of that, Sir.’

  ‘Then want before you die.’

  And want he did; for my own grand-dad

  Saw the story’s end,

  And Tom make out a living

  From the seaweed on the strand.

  The Colonel went out sailing.

  A MODEL FOR THE LAUREATE

  ON thrones from China to Peru


  All sorts of kings have sat

  That men and women of all sorts

  proclaimed both good and great;

  And what’s the odds if such as these

  For reason of the State

  Should keep their lovers waiting,

  Keep their lovers waiting?

  Some boast of beggar-kings and kings

  Of rascals black and white

  That rule because a strong right arm

  Puts all men in a fright,

  And drunk or sober live at ease

  Where none gainsay their right,

  And keep their lovers waiting,

  Keep their lovers waiting.

  The Muse is mute when public men

  Applaud a modern throne:

  Those cheers that can be bought or sold,

  That office fools have run,

  That waxen seal, that signature.

  For things like these what decent man

  Would keep his lover waiting,

  Keep his lover waiting?

  THE OLD STONE CROSS

  A STATESMAN is an easy man,

  He tells his lies by rote;

  A journalist makes up his lies

  And takes you by the throat;

  So stay at home’ and drink your beer

  And let the neighbours’ vote,

  Said the man in the golden breastplate

  Under the old stone Cross.

  Because this age and the next age

  Engender in the ditch,

  No man can know a happy man

  From any passing wretch;

  If Folly link with Elegance

  No man knows which is which,

  Said the man in the golden breastplate

  Under the old stone Cross.

  But actors lacking music

  Do most excite my spleen,

  They say it is more human

  To shuffle, grunt and groan,

  Not knowing what unearthly stuff

  Rounds a mighty scene,

  Said the man in the golden breastplate

  Under the old stone Cross.

  THE SPIRIT MEDIUM

  POETRY, music, I have loved, and yet

  Because of those new dead

 

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