Startlingly and with strong pain there sprang up before Joan’s eyes a patch of broken heath with a very deep hollow of white sand, blinding in the sun. No words, no name, only the place.
“The folks that live in Liverpool, their heart is in their boots;
They go to Hell like lambs, they do, because the hooter hoots.
Where men may not be dancin’, though the wheels may dance all day;
And men may not be smokin’, but only chimneys may.
But I come from Castlepatrick and my heart is on my sleeve,
But a lady stole it from me on St. Poleyander’s Eve.
“The folks that live in black Belfast, their heart is in their mouth;
They see us making murders in the meadows of the South;
They think a plough’s a rack they do, and cattle-calls are creeds,