if she cry their namesThey run up on the land and dance in the moon
Till they are giddy and would love as men do,
And be as patient and as pitiful.
But there is nothing that will stop in their heads
They've such poor memories, though they weep for it.
Oh, yes, they weep; that's when the moon is full.
Is it because they have short memories
They live so long?
What's memory but the ash
That chokes our fires that have begun to sink?
And they've a dizzy, everlasting fire.
There is your own house, lady.
Why, that's true,
And we'd have passed it without noticing.
A curse upon it for a meddlesome house!
Had it but stayed away I would have known
What Queen Maeve thinks on when the moon is pinched;
And whether now – as in the old days – the dancers
Set their brief love on men.
Rest on my arm.
These are no thoughts for any Christian ear.
I am younger, she would be too heavy for you.
(He begins taking his lute out of the bag, CATHLEEN, who has turned towards OONA, turns back to him.)
This hollow box remembers every foot
That danced upon the level grass of the world,
And will tell secrets if I whisper to it.
(Sings.)
Lift up the white knee;
Hear what they sing,
Those young dancers
That in a ring
Raved but now
Of the hearts that brake
Long, long ago
For their sake.
New friends are sweet.
"But the dance changes.
Lift up the gown,
All that sorrow
Is trodden down."
The empty rattle-pate! Lean on this arm,
That I can tell you is a christened arm,
And not like some, if we are to judge by speech.
But as you please. It is time I was forgot.
Maybe it is not on this arm you slumbered
When you were as helpless as a worm.
Stay with me till we come to your own house.
When I am rested I will need no help.
I thought to have kept her from remembering
The evil of the times for full ten minutes;
But now when seven are out you come between.
Talk on; what does it matter what you say,
For you have not been christened?
Old woman, old woman,
You robbed her of three minutes peace of mind,
And though you live unto a hundred years,
And wash the feet of beggars and give alms,
And climb Croaghpatrick, you shall not be pardoned.
How does a man who never was baptized
Know what Heaven pardons?
You are a sinful woman.
I care no more than if a pig had grunted.
(Enter CATHLEEN'S Steward.)
I am not to blame, for I had locked the gate,
The forester's to blame. The men climbed in
At the east corner where the elm-tree is.
I do not understand you, who has climbed?
Then God be thanked, I am the first to tell you.
I was afraid some other of the servants —
Though I've been on the watch – had been the first,
And mixed up truth and lies, your ladyship.
Has some misfortune happened?
Yes, indeed.
The forester that let the branches lie
Against the wall's to blame for everything,
For that is how the rogues got into the garden.
I thought to have escaped misfortune here.
Has any one been killed?
Oh, no, not killed.
They have stolen half a cart-load of green cabbage.
But maybe they were starving.
That is certain.
To rob or starve, that was the choice they had.
A learned theologian has laid down
That starving men may take what's necessary,
And yet be sinless.
Sinless and a thief!
There should be broken bottles on the wall.
And if it be a sin, while faith's unbroken
God cannot help but pardon. There is no soul
But it's unlike all others in the world,
Nor one but lifts a strangeness to God's love
Till that's grown infinite, and therefore none
Whose loss were less than irremediable
Although it were the wickedest in the world.
(Enter TEIG and SHEMUS.)
What are you running for? Pull off your cap,
Do you not see who's there?
I cannot wait.
I am running to the
