| |
| TO MEATH of the pastures, | |
| From wet hills by the sea, | |
| Through Leitrim and Longford | |
| Go my cattle and me. | |
| |
| I hear in the darkness | 5 |
| Their slipping and breathing. | |
| I name them the bye-ways | |
| They’re to pass without heeding. | |
| |
| Then the wet, winding roads, | |
| Brown bogs with black water; | 10 |
| And my thoughts on white ships | |
| And the King o’ Spain’s daughter. | |
| |
| O! farmer, strong farmer! | |
| You can spend at the fair | |
| But your face you must turn | 15 |
| To your crops and your care. | |
| |
| And soldiers—red soldiers! | |
| You’ve seen many lands; | |
| But you walk two by two, | |
| And by captain’s commands. | 20 |
| |
| O! the smell of the beasts, | |
| The wet wind in the morn; | |
| And the proud and hard earth | |
| Never broken for corn; | |
| |
| And the crowds at the fair, | 25 |
| The herds loosened and blind, | |
| Loud words and dark faces | |
| And the wild blood behind. | |
| |
| (O! strong men with your best | |
| I would strive breast to breast | 30 |
| I could quiet your herds | |
| With my words, with my words.) | |
| |
| I will bring you, my kine, | |
| Where there’s grass to the knee; | |
| But you’ll think of scant croppings | 35 |
| Harsh with salt of the sea. | |
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