He flung himself at his white wife’s side,
And the dead lips moved and smiled,
Then came somewhere from the lonely room
The laugh of a little child.
THE RAPE OF THE BARON’S WINE
Who was stealing the Baron’s wine,
Golden sherry and port so old,
Precious, I wot, as drops of gold?
Lone to-night he came to dine,
Flung himself in his oaken chair,
Kicked the hound that whined for bread;
“God! the thief shall swing!” he said,
Thrust his hand through his ruffled hair.
Bolt and bar and double chain
Held secure the cellar door;
And the watchman placed before,
Kept a faithful watch in vain.
Every day the story came,
“Master, come! I hear it drip!”
The wine is wet on the robber’s lip,
Who the robber, none could name.
All the folk in County Clare
Found a task for every day
By the Baron’s gate to stray,
Came to gossip, stayed to stare.
Nothing here to satisfy
Souls for tragedy awake;
Just the castle by the lake,
Calmest spot beneath the sky.
But the whispered story grew,
When the Baron went to dine,
That a devil shared his wine,
Had his soul in danger too.
Every morn the Baron rose
More morose and full of age;
Passed the day in sullen rage,
Barred his gates on friends or foes.