Chapter I: Met a Walking-Man

I met a walking-man;
His head was old and grey.
I gave him what I had
To crutch him on his way.
The man was Mary's Son, I'll swear;
A glory trembled in his hair!

And since that blessed day
I've never known the pinch:
I plough a broad townland,
And dig a river-inch;
And on my hearth the fire is bright
For all that walk by day or night.

THE NINEPENNY FIDIL

My father and mother were Irish,
And I am Irish, too;
I bought a wee fidil for ninepence,
And it is Irish, too.
I'm up in the morning early
To meet the dawn of day,
And to the lintwhite's piping
The many's the tune I play.

One pleasant eve in June time
I met a lochrie-man:
His face and hands were weazen,
His height was not a span.
He boor'd me for my fidil--
"You know," says he, "like you,
My father and mother were Irish,
And I am Irish, too!"

He took my wee red fidil,
And such a tune he turned--
The Glaise in it whispered,
The Lionan in it m'urned.
Says he, "My lad, you're lucky--
I wish t' I was like you:
You're lucky in your birth-star,
And in your fidil, too!"

He gave me back my fidil,
My fidil-stick, also,
And stepping like a mayboy,
He jumped the Leargaidh Knowe.
I never saw him after,
Nor met his gentle kind;
But, whiles, I think I hear him
A-wheening in the wind!

My father and mother were Irish,
And I am Irish, too:
I bought a wee fidil for ninepence,
And it is Irish, too.
I'm up in the morning early
To meet the dawn of day,
And to the lintwhite's piping
The many's the tune I play.

GRASSLANDS ARE FAIR

Grasslands are fair,
Ploughlands are rare.
Grasslands are lonely,
Ploughlands are comely.
Grasslands breed cattle,
Ploughlands feed people.
Grasslands are not wrought,
Ploughlands swell with thought.

WINTER SONG

'Twould skin a fairy
It is so airy,
And the snow it nips so cold:
Shepherd and squire
Sit by the fire,
The sheep are in the fold.

You have your wish--
A reeking dish,
And rubble walls about;
So pity the poor
That have no door
To keep the winter out!