From the play of The Country of the Young.

There’s many a strong farmer

Whose heart would break in two

If he could see the townland

That we are riding to;

Boughs have their fruit and blossom,

At all times of the year,

Rivers are running over

With red beer and brown beer.

An old man plays the bagpipes

In a golden and silver wood,

Queens, their eyes blue like the ice,

Are dancing in a crowd.

The little fox he murmured,

‘O what is the world’s bane?’

The sun was laughing sweetly,

The moon plucked at my rein;

But the little red fox murmured,

‘O do not pluck at his rein,

He is riding to the townland

That is the world’s bane.’

When their hearts are so high,

That they would come to blows,

They unhook their heavy swords

From golden and silver boughs;

But all that are killed in battle

Awaken to life again;

It is lucky that their story

Is not known among men.

For O the strong farmers

That would let the spade lie,

For their hearts would be like a cup

That somebody had drunk dry.

The little fox he murmured,

‘O what is the world’s bane?’

The sun was laughing sweetly,

The moon plucked at my rein;

But the little red fox murmured,

‘O do not pluck at his rein,

He is riding to the townland

That is the world’s bane.’

Michael will unhook his trumpet

From a bough overhead,

And blow a little noise

When the supper has been spread.

Gabriel will come from the water

With a fish tail, and talk

Of wonders that have happened

On wet roads where men walk,

And lift up an old horn

Of hammered silver, and drink

Till he has fallen asleep

Upon the starry brink.

The little fox he murmured,

‘O what is the world’s bane?’

The sun was laughing sweetly,

The moon plucked at my rein;

But the little red fox murmured,

‘O do not pluck at his rein,

He is riding to the townland,

That is the world’s bane.’

I made some of these poems walking about among the Seven Woods, before the big wind of nineteen hundred and three blew down so many trees, & troubled the wild creatures, & changed the look of things; and I thought out there a good part of the play which follows. The first shape of it came to me in a dream, but it changed much in the making, foreshadowing, it may be, a change that may bring a less dream-burdened will into my verses. I never re-wrote anything so many times; for at first I could not make these wills that stream into mere life poetical. But now I hope to do easily much more of the kind, and that our new Irish players will find the buskin and the sock.