For they knew the day would come, As sure as the piper said, When many loves would be parted, And many graves would be red.
And the wake broke up in tumult, And the women were left alone, Keening over the beggar That died at Gobnat's Stone.
Did you see Paidin, Paidin, the besom-man, Last night as you came by Over the mountain?
A barth of new heather He bore on his shoulder, And a bundle of whitlow-grass Under his oxter.
I spied him as he passed Beyond the carn head, But no eye saw him At the hill foot after.
What has come over him? The women are saying. What can have crossed Paidin, the besom-man?
The bogholes he knew As the curlews know them, And the rabbits' pads, And the derelict quarries.
He was humming a tune-- The "Enchanted Valley"-- As he passed me westward Beyond the carn.
I stood and I listened, For his singing was strange: It rang in my ears The long night after.
What has come over Paidin, the besom-man? What can have crossed him? The women keep saying.
They talk of the fairies-- And, God forgive me, Paidin knew _them_ Like his prayers!
Will you fetch word Up to the cross-roads If you see track of him, Living or dead?
The boys are loafing Without game or caper; And the dark piper Is gone home with the birds.
Every shuiler is Christ, Then be not hard or cold: The bit that goes for Christ Will come a hundred-fold.
The ear upon your corn Will burst before its time; Your roots will yield a crop Without manure or lime.
And every sup you give To crutch him on his way Will fill your churn with milk, And choke your barn with hay.
Then when the shuiler begs, Be neither hard nor cold; The share that goes for Christ Will come a hundred-fold.
I wish and I wish And I wish I were A golden bee In the blue of the air, Winging my way At the mouth of day To the honey marges Of Loch-ciuin-ban; Or a little green drake, Or a silver swan, Floating upon The stream of Aili, And I to be swimming Gaily, gaily!
I am the man-child. From a virgin womb, Begot among the hills of virgin loins, The generation of a hundred kings, I come. I am the man-child glorious, The love-son of the second birth foretold By western bards, the fruit of form and strength By nature's prophylactic forethought joined In marriage with their kind, the crown, the peak, The summit of the scheme of things, the pride And glory of the hand of God.