5. A Drover

TO MEATH of the pastures,

From wet hills by the sea,

Through Leitrim and Longford

Go my cattle and me.

I hear in the darkness

Their slipping and breathing.

I name them the bye-ways

They’re to pass without heeding.

Then the wet, winding roads,

Brown bogs with black water;

And my thoughts on white ships

And the King o’ Spain’s daughter.

O! farmer, strong farmer!

You can spend at the fair

But your face you must turn

To your crops and your care.

And soldiers—red soldiers!

You’ve seen many lands;

But you walk two by two,

And by captain’s commands.

O! the smell of the beasts,

The wet wind in the morn;

And the proud and hard earth

Never broken for corn;

And the crowds at the fair,

The herds loosened and blind,

Loud words and dark faces

And the wild blood behind.

(O! strong men with your best

I would strive breast to breast

I could quiet your herds

With my words, with my words.)

I will bring you, my kine,

Where there’s grass to the knee;

But you’ll think of scant croppings

Harsh with salt of the sea.