| ‘Although I’d lie lapped up in linen |
| A deal I’d sweat and little earn |
| If I should live as live the neighbours,’ |
| Cried the beggar, Billy Byrne; |
| ‘Stretch bones till the daylight come |
| On great-grandfather’s battered tomb.’ |
|
|
|
|
| Upon a grey old battered tombstone |
| In Glendalough beside the stream, |
| Where the O’Byrnes and Byrnes
are buried, |
| He stretched his bones and fell in a dream |
| Of sun and moon that a good hour |
| Bellowed and
pranced in the round tower; |
|
|
|
|
| Of golden king and silver lady, |
| Bellowing up and bellowing round, |
| Till toes
mastered a sweet measure, |
| Mouth mastered a sweet sound, |
| Prancing round and prancing up |
| Until they
pranced upon the top. |
|
|
|
|
| That golden king and that wild lady |
| Sang till stars began to fade, |
| Hands gripped
in hands, toes close together, |
| Hair spread on the wind they made; |
| That lady and that golden king |
| Could
like a brace of blackbirds sing. |
|
|
|
|
| ‘It’s certain that my luck is broken,’ |
| That rambling jailbird Billy said; |
| ‘Before
nightfall I’ll pick a pocket |
| And snug it in a feather-bed. |
| I cannot find the peace of home |
| On great-
grandfather’s battered tomb.’ |
