Mary Hynes

Lyrics

That Sunday, on my oath, the rain was a heavy overcoat on a poor poet And when the rain began in fleeces of water to buck-leap like a goat I was only a walking penence reaching Kiltartan And there so suddenly that my cold spine broke out On the arch of my back in a rainbow This woman surged out of the day with so much sunlight That I was nailed there like a scarecrow But I found my tongue and a breath to balance it, and I said: "If I'd bow to you with this hump of rain, I'll fall On my collarbone, but luck I'll chance it" And after falling bow again she laughed Ah, she was gracious, and softly she said to me: "For all Your lovely talking I go marketing with an ass, I know him I'm no hill-queen, alas, or Ireland, that grass widow, so hurry on Sweet Raftery, or you'll keep me late for Mass!" The parish priest has blamed me for missing second Mass And the bell talking on the rope of the steeple But the tonsure of the poet is the bright crash Of love that blinds the irons on his belfry Were I making an Aisling I'd tell the tale of her hair But now I've grown careful of my listeners So I pass over one long day and the rainy air Where we sheltered in whispers When we left the dark evening at last outside her door She lighted a lamp though a gaming company Could have sighted each trump by the light of her unshawled poll And indeed she welcomed me with a big quart bottle and I mooned there over glasses Till she took that bird, the phoenix, from the spit And, "Raftery", says she, "A feast is no bad dowry, sit down now and taste it" If I praised Ballylea before it was only for the mountains Where I broke horses and ran wild And for its seven crooked smoky houses Where seven crones are tied All day to the listening-top of a half door And nothing to be heard or seen But the drowsy dropping of water And a gander on the green But, boys, I was blind as a kitten till last Sunday This town is earth's very navel Seven palaces are thatched there of a Monday And O the seven queens whose pale Proud faces with their seven glimmering sisters The Pleiads, light the evening where they stroll And one can find the well by their wet footprints And make one's soul! For Mary Hynes, rising, gathers up there Her ripening body from all the love stories And rinsing herself at morning, shakes her hair And stirs the old gay books in libraries And what shall I do with sweet Boccaccio? And shall I send Ovid back to school again With a new headline for his copybook And a new pain? Like a nun she will play you a sweet tune on a spinet And from such grasshopper music leap Like Herod's hussy who fancied a saint's head For grace after meat Yet she'll peg out a line of clothes on a windy morning And by noonday put them ironed in the chest And you'll swear by her white fingers she does nothing But take her fill of rest And I'll wager now that my song is ended Loughrea, that old dead city where the weavers Have pined at the mouldering looms since Helen broke the thread Will be piled again with silver fleeces O the new coats and big horses! The raving and the ribbons! And Ballylea in hubbub and uproar! And may Raftery be dead if he's not there to ruffle it On his own mare, Shank's mare, that never needs a spur But ah, Sweet Light, though your face coins My heart's very metals, isn't it folly without a pardon For Raftery to sing so that men, east and west, come Spying on your vegetable garden We could be so quiet in your chimney corner Yet how could a poet hold you any more than the sun Burning in the big bright hazy heart of harvest Could be tied in a henrun? Bless your poet then and let him go! He'll never stack a haggard with his breath: His thatch of words will not keep rain or snow Out of the house, or keep back death But Raftery, rising, curses as he sees you Stir the fire and wash delph That he was bred a poet whose selfish trade it is To keep no beauty to himself