A BALLAD OF THE BIRD DANCE OF PIERRETTE
Pierrette's mother speaks:
"Sure is it Pierrette yez are, Pierrette and no other?
(Och, Pierrette, me heart is broke that ye shud be that same—)
Pertendin' to be Frinch, an' me yer poor ould Irish mother
That named ye Bridget fer yer aunt, a dacent Dublin name!
Ye that was a pious girrl, decked out in ruffled collars,
With yer hair that docked an' frizzed—if Father Pat shud see!
Dancin' on a piece o' grass all puddle-holes an' hollers,
Amusin' these quare folk that's called a Pote-Society!"
Her locks flour-sprent,
That danced beneath the flowering tree
Leaping as she went.
"If there's folk to stare at ye ye'll dance for all creation
(Since ye went to settlements 'tis little else I've heard),
Letting yer good wages go to chat of 'inspiration,'
Flappin' up an' down an' makin' out yez are a burrd!
Sure if ye got cash fer it 'tis little I'd be sayin'
(Och, Pierrette, stenographin' 'tis better wage ye'll get,)
Sorra wan these long-haired folk has spoke till ye o' payin',
Talkin' of yer art, an' ye a leppin' in the wet!"
But it was Bridget Sullivan,
Her head down-bent,
Went back on the three-thirteen,
Coughing as she went.
William Griffith
(Who felt for her.)