From Droum to Ballyhyre
The women lay him sacks or straw,
Beside the seed of fire.
And when the grey cocks crow and flap,
And winds are in the sky,
“Oh, Maurya, Maurya, are you dead?”
You’ll hear Patch-Shaneen cry.
ON AN ISLAND
You’ve plucked a curlew, drawn a hen,
Washed the shirts of seven men,