And I'm long past the knife-thrust I got at wake or fair.

Or looking past the lighted door and fancying you there.

Grey Eyes and Black Hair—the grief is never this;

I've long forgot the soft arms—the first, wild kiss.

But, Oh, girl that tore my youth,—'tis this I have to bear,—

If you were kneeling at my feet I'd neither stay nor care.

THE INTRODUCTION

I'm askin' you'll be easy for a bit, Sir,

The lad's had little but a thrush's schoolin',