Bill Griffiths Collected Poems and Sequences 1966-1996: A Review

Bill Griffiths: Collected Earlier Poems (1966-80), Collected Poems & Sequences, (1981-91) and Collected Poems Volume 3 (1992-96). Reality Street 2010, 2014 and 2016. Eds. Alan Halsey and Ken Edwards.

BG1
When the Collected Poems Volume 3 (1992-96), the third volume in Reality Street’s vital edition of Griffith’s poetry over three decades, arrived in the post, it became evident that it would make no sense to review it in isolation. And so, what follows is a review of all three volumes, or rather a survey of Bill’s poetic career up to 1996. Griffiths is, in my view, a major poet, one of the towering figures of late 20th and early 21st century British poetry. What follows is, of necessity, all too brief and somewhat unsatisfactory, but, I hope, better than nothing.

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In 1976, Griffiths distributed a prose text called A Note on Democracy, consisting of six single-sided typewritten quarto pages with wide right-hand margins, stapled in the top right cornet to a green light card back cover which has a list of Pirate Press pamphlets. I say distributed because, as a note at the end of the end of the text says ‘this is not a publication but a private set of copies not for resale’. The reader is encouraged to use the wide margin to make their own comments on the text and share them with the author by post. The Note is a tract against power and what Griffiths sees as the pretence of power sharing inherent in the democratic system He picks out as examples the treatment of the English gypsy community and the role of prison as a tool of repression and a microcosm of society at large. He also draws a contrast between ‘Roman’ ideals of order and ‘Celtic/pagan’ ideals of individualism, with a clear preference for the latter. This is in keeping with the Note’s essentially anarchist position; Griffiths is not interested in proposing an alternative form of government, but an alternative to government. As Alan Halsey notes in his introduction to the latest volume, Griffiths ‘fails to address the question of criminality itself’, but this possible naivety does not change the fact that his politics were heartfelt and consistent and also very understandable in the context of 1970s English policing, with its barely concealed racism. In any case, you don’t have to agree with his ideas to appreciate the power of the poetry they informed.

It’s a pity that this text has never been made more widely available, as it represents possibly his clearest statement on so many of the concerns that run through the poetry: the concern with marginal social groups like gypsies, prisoners, bikers, canal people and coal miners; the repeated references to Charlemagne’s destruction of the Irminsul; the need to resist power in all its forms. Crucially, it also informs his belief that social activity must be based on collaboration rather than coercion.

This belief in collaborative effort underpins much of the writing, from the prison and biker poems that are, in effect, co-written with prisoners and bikers, to the frequent use of found text and collage to the poems written for multiple voices or as text for group performance, Griffiths wrote with the social and linguistic landscapes he inhabited, rather than against them. In many cases, his primary collaborator was himself, as he recycled texts through numerous versions and configurations from publication to publication, creating quite a complex editorial job for Halsey and Edwards in the process. To their credit, they have managed to organise the materials at their disposal to produce three volumes that make this essential body of poetry available in a coherent form.

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Griffiths’ essential method is declared early on, in the opening lines of ‘Cycle 1’, the first of a sixteen-poem set of cycles ‘on Dover Borstal’, which he wrote in his early twenties:

Ictus!
as I aint like ever to be still but
kaleidoscope,
lock and knock my sleeping

This is a passage that has been analysed frequently but it still bears considerable unpacking. The opening ‘ictus’ operates on a number of levels. It is, of course, a reference to the stress of Griffiths’ characteristically accented line, but also to the rhythm of the pulse, the flow of blood through the speaker/poet’s intensely physical presence. It is a word whose use implies a kind of knowledge, of culture even, that contrasts sharply with the demotic ‘I aint’ that follows. Although this usage reflects the poet’s South London dialect, as ‘ictus’ is part of his academic idiolect, this is a fictional ‘I’ as Griffiths inhabits the persona of an inmate rather than documenting his own experience. This degree of identification with the liminal groups he writes about typifies the early work and, as we will see later, a move from first to third person is one of the markers of a change in his later political poetry. This tension between idiomatic and specialist language registers runs through all of Griffiths’ work and one of his core technical achievements is the way he marries them into a cohesive style, or set of styles.

The isolation of ‘kaleidoscope’ as an entire line emphasises it as a marker of how to read the text it is embedded in. Grifffiths’ poetry is kaleidoscopic in a number of senses; words are rearranged in ever-shifting provisional patterns and the constituent elements are hard, sharp, bright shards of dislocated matter, the dynamic, multiply reflected objects of a kaleidoscope, not the static, frozen tesserae of a mosaic. Take, for instance, these lines from Delvan’s Book (1993):

Belook, in opening Ramuyi

the loop-feathered art,

a prayer,

prowled out in light,

a slide of a dance,

to pronounce

coming offering me to Hanuman

the oil of the human

to the unfolded fur

Then the fourth line of the cycle enacts the typical Griffiths, a short unit of one to three densely-packed stresses, jagged, full of assonance and consonance.

Not that Griffiths only wrote in short lines; passages, and even whole poems, feature longer units, and even prose paragraphs. In fact, the lines that immediately follow burst this bound:

Within

The complex of the fort against the French, Dover,

‘S mighty imperfection: fits to the sea.

The moat (and ported, kinging the blue) closed, so built-made and the salty

grass and rubble of chalk growing.

Writing the chalk –– kid

Shout for separation.

But even here the tendency for the long line to break into short half-lines is evident. It is tempting to argue that this underlying structural strategy reflects Griffiths academic background in Angle Saxon and his editing and translating of numerous Old English texts. What is certain is that this short line became a tool of immense flexibility in his expert hands, with a range that comprised the poems in Metrical Cookery (1991):

Bread is body

and staff

basic

and rough

and those in Materia Boethiana a decade earlier:

This one

speaks of the same time-tumble too.

Others

starts suns storms.

A torrential land

like glasses tuned and sharded.

It’s a method that is summed up neatly in these lines from A Book of Legends (1991)

Everything moves into pattern

like words in poetry

(tho few enuf stay there)

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Cycles is the first of the three great early works that dominate the first volume of the set, the others being War With Windsor, a shape-shifting immersion into biker culture, and the second being Building: The New London Hospital, a book about reincarnation through the filter of manual labour.
The biker poems (Windsor are/were a chapter of bikers) continue the theme of the dispossessed and reviled outsider, potential or actual fodder for the prison system whose parallel version of the social order is laid out in dazzling, if occasionally somewhat dispiriting, detail:

Close up wolf about my mouth

He would go in

Sit in his cave, like me

Smell at the daylight.

 

Animals an’ criminals

Among the legs of the animals

Criminals hands in belts.

 

Jesu ‘pecker

My eyes is loose with worry.

The war is also with another Windsor, much of the text being concerned with the nature of monarchy and of the contract between people and rulers when the rule is unjust: ‘Fealty, or the link between monarch and subject is revocable, as are all feudal ties.’

Building is my personal favourite of the major early works, although Griffiths himself was never really satisfied with it. Perhaps this was because it is something of a transitional text, partly because the subject of death and of ghosts enters his work, but mainly because while the labourers are as much a marginal group as prisoners and bikers (indeed, some of them are individuals who appear in earlier poems), the represent a different kind of community who exist within rather than without the margins of wider society and because the theme of manual work now enters Griffiths’ imaginary vocabulary.

the great slabs or sills mad as hell

I rolled em uphill rather than lift em

still they caught me so I was eating blood some more

 

it was strength I

wanted to show, not

blood

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BG2The early 1980s represented a relatively fallow period for Griffiths, who was studying for his PhD and leaving London to live on a houseboat in Middlesex. When he started publishing more frequently again, from 1986, the work is focused on this new margin of canals and the people who live on them. The relatively slower pace of this world is reflected in the poems of The Bournemouth, The Book of the Boat and Morning Lands, the three books that represent the heart of the second volume of the Collected. Like the building site, boats represent work but they also bring a greater awareness of the natural world, an almost environmental consciousness that is not present in the London work.

Asleep a minute on the soil,

I part

a thousand facets of celery,

look through my woodland

not a’hunt but hopeful,

land-awake

on a tiny pivot

of love.

The boat was destroyed in a fire and, after a peripatetic few years, Griffiths moved to Durham, where he was to spend the rest of his life. This move is pivotal for the work, and the transition is marked by two 1991 titles, Coal and the aforementioned Metrical Cookery. In an unpublished review written at the time of publication, I focused on the various aspects of coal as signifier that run through that book: coal as work, wealth, artifice and so on. But I have since come to realise that there is a larger significance to it. Coal represents a kind of entering in to the life of an entire community, a shift from nomad to settler in an entirely other kind of marginality, and a life that centres on various ideas of family:

Sea coal

is coal by sea.

 

Family is

these and these,

not a more,

but same,

your soldiers,

lads and ladies,

a letter lode

for the matrix.

The recipe poems Metrical Cookery are an extension of this sense of community; they are charms for the shared meals that bound families and mining villages together. The effect is underscored by the entry of Durham dialect into the work, marking the beginning of what was to be a major preoccupation for the rest of his life.

If the early 80s were relatively quiet, the period 1991-96 were enormously productive for Griffiths, and the third volume contains over 500 pages of poetry written during those five years. Unavoidably enough, the results can be somewhat uneven. For instance, while it is interesting to see Griffiths try on ballad forms and submerge himself in the local dialect, the resulting Dialect Poems is, ultimately, unsatisfactory as poetry, smacking a bit too much of the academic exercise. Equally, in the poems in Satires (1993) the anger drowns out the poetry, with the result that they feel too easy, too much like shooting fish in a barrel.

It’s David Frost!

Shit from the shit-monger.

Shit straight from the Court of St Shit.

However, this period also sees some of Griffiths finest work appearing. The early 90s pamphlets Calendar Contents and Quotidiana see the sense of community of Coal broaden and deepen. The latter sequence is particularly fine and includes poems where the Durham dialect really works as a kind of tender mark of absorption in his new home. In The Coal World (1995), the dialect becomes fully integrated into Griffiths’ method as he versifies stories of mining life in the 19th century in a manner that brings to mind some of the early gypsy poems.

Bill GBut the heart of Griffiths achievement at this time are the three great poems about Delvan MacIntosh, a young man of Pakistani ethnicity who was a prisoner in Wandsworth. These poems, Notes from Delvan Macintosh, Delvan’s Book and Star Fish Jail push Griffiths’ poetic of collabouration to their logical conclusion, with the poet acting as editor and amanuensis for MacIntosh, whose story is told mainly in his own words. In his introduction to the volume, Halsey notes that while in the earlier prison poems ‘the speaker or persona is unidentified and thus easily mistaken for the poet himself’, in these works we see ‘a clear distinction between the prisoner … and Griffiths as empathetic audience and transcriber’. The result is a body of work that skewers the brutal racist prison regime that takes for granted that prisoners should be seen as fair game on the basis of skin colour and of a wider justice system that accepts confessions extracted on the basis of torture and the administration of drugs as valid reasons to condemn suspects.

Here, the problem of criminality ceases to be an issue, nobody, regardless of what they may or may not have done, deserves the treatment meted out to MacIntosh as a matter of course, and the poems are triumphs of documentary condemnation:

An’ I was in solitary ; it’s a sort of bare bed of concrete

but you can’t use it even : they come and check

and then the doors open : a screw comes in

sez, get against that back wall ; or we’ll put you there.

An’ you cannot see out : or smoke, or read, or nothing,

And my hands were hell : with them twisting the thumbs behind your back

to walk down the landing : some screaming exhibit.

(Star Fish Jail)

Here Griffiths fuses the prisoner’s words with a line derived from Anglo-Saxon verse and something of the tone of the Old English ‘Wanderer’ poem to produce political poetry of the very highest order.

The three other major sequences in this final volume, The Lion Man (1995), Baldur’s Lacrimosa and Rousseau and the Wicked (both 1996) see the ‘old’ and ‘new’ Griffiths integrating. Most of his major themes and preoccupations are here, but now seen very much from a Northern perspective rather than a London one. It is a mark of his sense of being at home in Seaham that he more or less abandons dialect and writes in his own voice, but with newly adjusted eyes.

The appearance of Jean Jacques Rousseau as an exemplar at this stage in Griffiths’ career casts a new light on his writing. In particular, it brings into focus his treatment of the liminal outsider groups he writes about as exemplars of innately good people, who are corrupted by the civilisation that would exclude them. It also illuminates the strain of Romanticism that runs through his work: his preference for the individual over the collective; his identification with the marginalised; a syntax of the irrational; poems based on works by Borodin and Mussorgsky; and a Wordsworthian emphasis on ‘the real language of men’.

In addition to bringing Griffiths’ hard to find pamphlets and books back into print, the second and third volumes also contain substantial bodies of previously uncollected bodies of poetry that previously appeared in magazines, anthologies, collections published after 1996, and the self-edited two floppy disk ‘collected poems’ that Griffiths put together in 1992 and updated in 1996. Most of this work is of the highest quality and rounds out Griffiths’ oeuvre. A good example is the long sequence ‘How Highpoint is Better than Wandsworth’. This is another collaboration with Delvan MacIntosh, apparently based on letters between him and the poet. Here we see an experience of a saner, more humane prison system which serves somewhat to balance the unrelenting grimness of the Wandsworth poems:

They open it in front of you,

for to see if there’s any drugs or stuff that’s not allowed

but they don’t actually read

what’s in the letters.

When your posters came in, Bill,

the screw looked at them, sez to me,

Jeez you ain’t gonna put them up, are you?

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This necessarily short and selective chronological skim inevitably fails to reflect the full range and power of this major body of writing. Another way to slice it is to review the range of genres Griffiths worked in and how the poetry relates to his work as a scholar, translator, prose writer and purely visual and sound poet.

The dialect poems relate closely to his almost single-handed effort at revitalising the study of the language of his adopted Durham home. While there is much lyricism in the poetry, there is little enough lyric, and almost no conventional love poetry. Indeed, despite the Romantic vein identified earlier, Griffiths’ favoured genres reflect his interest in the medieval. There are narratives, elegies, praise poems, satire, riddles, recasting of myth and poems that verge in the condition of rite. In addition to the Old English echoes already mentioned, there are translations and adaptations embedded in the work, with sources ranging from the Padderborn Epic to Rimbaud. There are also passages, like this from another prison poem Liam’s Song (1994), that remind the reader that Griffiths also translated Y Gododin:

Wobbut thoo ettled ti meet god.

Woz his stick bray-ey enough?

Did his bottles hilp thaw runaway heed?

Efter his mirikles, hoodee thaw shackle-banes feel?

Wor the bizzun-foak anjel an’ lowery aareet?

Hev thaw raxy brawn limbs com wick ageyn, man?

What-like is stane like tiv eet? (Aye, Aa thowt seea)

An’ ti cowp seea much blud – all tis haw thaa’s a regular guy

While all of these genres are handled unconventionally, there are also more overtly ‘experimental’ modes employed, too. These include found texts, documentary poems, cut-ups, texts for multiple voices and others with visual elements integrated into them. The natural world, when it appears, can be Edenic:

Cheshire: On a long-abandoned RAF camp,

the ruins of the demolished buildings are almost hidden

under brambles                and briars

and seas of rosebay willowherb           and plants

escaped from cultivation,             especially lupins

and Shasta daisies            which increase year by year

Griffiths’ achievement is that he managed to write poetry about anything that interested him while, at the same time, reconciling the tension between being and doing, the often conflicting urges to make poems that are and poems that do, that make things happen. The hard surfaces and formal adventurousness of these poems chime with an avant garde concern with the materiality of language but they are underpinned by that sense of social and political engagement that the Note on Democracy spells out. The result is that he writes a poetry that is questioning not just of the nature of writing, but also of the public context in which it exists and intervenes.

All things that work

are fun.

There is an incipient magic.

(from poem 47 in the Rousseau and the Wicked)

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While I was writing this review Ken Edwards posted a farewell to publishing on the Reality Street blog. The press has published a wide range of very fine work, but if it had only published these three volumes it would have been enough to mark it out as one of the most significant publishers of the “parallel tradition” of British poetry. He and Halsey have navigated the complications of Griffiths’ editing and publishing history to produce a cohesive, wonderfully readable text with just the right level of annotation to allow the reader to discover the depths of the writing for themselves. A small indication of the difficulties involved can be seen by considering what may be of Griffiths earliest publications, two A4 broadsheets from around 1971. They mark the beginning of one of the most significant and exciting British poets of the period since the 1960s, just as the last volume of the collected sadly marks his end.

One consists of three poems, ‘Terzetto’, ‘In Gypsy, 1970’ and ‘Short’, the other of a single poem, ‘Black Mass’. This last has eight irregular stanzas, and Griffiths started typing the last stanza after the sixth, realised his mistake, xed over the words he had typed and then continued the correct order on the next line. ‘Terzetto’, ‘Short’, and ‘Black Mass’ are included in the first volume as stand-alone poems, with adapted lines from ‘Terzetto’ and ‘Black Mass’ also featuring in other, longer pieces. ‘In Gypsy, 1970’ is not collected, but reworkings of the material appears in two other works. The broadsheets have no date, publisher name or place of publication on them, and to add a final twist, the name at the bottom of both is Billy Griffiths.

 

Note: This clarification is from Ken Edwards: ‘the credit for editing the texts – the scholarship and drudgery – should be attributed entirely to Alan Halsey. My role was largely confined to typesetting, book design, production and marketing.’

Geraldine Plunkett: Irish Woman Poet

Geraldine Plunkett (1891 – ?)  was born in Dublin. She published a single pamphlet of poems, Magnificat,  from The Candle Press in Rathgar in 1917, which sold for sixpence. Her brother Joseph Mary was executed for his part in the 1916 rising. She was the mother of Eilís Dillon and grandmother of Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin.

GAN AINM
 
YOUR gracious joy distills my heart as dew
Which your great love will gather to a whole
And bind the waters to a stream anew
To wind among the gardens of your soul.
 
The unthinkable sweetness of your kiss
Has made my soul a flame, and up it goes,
Finding its way among the stars in bliss
To hide itself in the eternal rose.

A Short Note on Brian Coffey & TS Eliot

In my contribution to Other Edens: The Life and Work of Brian Coffey I pointed out the evident influence of TS Eliot on Brian’s early poems that were published in The National Student in the late 1920s and 1930. Interesting to see that Eliot shared my view: it seems that Brian submitted ‘Wednesday Morning’ to the Criterion which Eliot rejected in a letter dated  9 September 1930, with the comment that although he was interested in the poem, ‘here and there it reminds me of myself’. Coffey went on to review for the Criterion and had a poem, ‘Plain Speech for Two’, published in it in 1938.

The 1916 Poets: Some Thoughts

Shortly after noon on Monday 24th April 1916, Easter Monday, Padraig Pearse stood outside the General Post Office in Dublin and formally proclaimed an Irish Republic. Pearse and his colleagues were engaging in a doomed if dramatic gesture of defiance against the British Empire, a few hundred armed irregulars with no great plan and even less hope of victory.

For many non-Irish poetry lovers, the Easter Rising is perhaps best known as the subject of WB Yeats’ great poem ‘Easter 1916‘. Appropriately, as in many ways this was a poets’ rebellion. Three of the signatories of the proclamation, Thomas MacDonagh, Joseph Mary Plunkett and Pearse, were poets, as were a number of other combatants and close supporters of the rising.

Plunkett was something of a poète maudit. Thin, pale and consumptive, he was already dying when he entered the GPO that Monday. His verse is, in the main, sentimentally religious and laden with images of blood and death. He is now best remembered for the poem ‘I See his blood upon the rose’ which was learned by heart by generations of Irish Catholic schoolchildren.

 I see His Blood upon the Rose

 

I SEE his blood upon the rose

And in the stars the glory of his eyes,

His body gleams amid eternal snows,

His tears fall from the skies.

 

I see his face in every flower;

The thunder and the singing of the birds

Are but his voice—and carven by his power

Rocks are his written words.

 

All pathways by his feet are worn,

His strong heart stirs the ever-beating sea,

His crown of thorns is twined with every thorn,

His cross is every tree.

McDonagh, who commanded the forces that occupied Jacob’s Mill on a southern approach to the city centre, was a more substantial and prolific poet than Plunkett, and his writing was more closely aligned to the mainstream of the Irish Literary Revival. He wrote poems on themes from Irish myth and legend as well as translations from older Irish verse (and also from Catullus). His ‘On a Patriot Poet’ might serve as his epitaph.

On a Poet Patriot

 

HIS songs were a little phrase

Of eternal song,

Drowned in the harping of lays

More loud and long.

 

His deed was a single word,

Called out alone

In a night when no echo stirred

To laughter or moan.

 

But his songs new souls shall thrill,

The loud harps dumb,

And his deed the echoes fill

When the dawn is come.

Pearse, had he lived, might well have been the most interesting poet of the three. He was the first Irish poet to take Whitman seriously and, almost uniquely among his compatriots, frequently used unrhymed free verse, albeit that he swapped the American’s barbaric yap for an Irish Catholic sense of piety. Like Plunkett, he was much taken with ideas of blood and sacrifice. On the night before his execution, he wrote a letter and poem to his mother; the poem has undertones of the crucifixion in its play on the mother’s simultaneous suffering and glorying in the death of a son.

The Mother

 

I do not grudge them: Lord, I do not grudge

My two strong sons that I have seen go out

To break their strength and die, they and a few,

In bloody protest for a glorious thing,

They shall be spoken of among their people,

The generations shall remember them,

And call them blessed;

But I will speak their names to my own heart

In the long nights;

The little names that were familiar once

Round my dead hearth.

Lord, thou art hard on mothers:

We suffer in their coming and their going;

And tho’ I grudge them not, I weary, weary

Of the long sorrow – And yet I have my joy:

My sons were faithful, and they fought.

The GPO Quartermaster was Desmond Fitzgerald, one of the English Imagists who met in the Tour Eiffel café in Soho, as near to an avant garde as English poetry had in the years before WWI. In late 1917, while Fitzgerald was in prison for his part in the Rising, his poems started to appear in AR Orage’s journal The New Age, alongside work by Ezra Pound and others. These were love poems, were not ‘Celtic’ and make no reference to Nationalist politics. Although he wrote prolifically, Fitzgerald’s claim to fame is his political career as a Minister in the first independent Irish government. Indeed, it was as a politician that he found his place among those remembered in the Pisan Cantos decades later.

Spring

 

I knew you and knew your beauty, bat only thought

Of that other beauty that artists, long-since dead, had wrought

On canvas and marble and painted glass:

And so we let the days and the weeks pass

Unnoticed as a bird that flies

Above the house, until one day, walking in friendly wise,

We heard a far-off blackbird sing

And suddenly remembered it was Spring.

And then I remembered your dark eyes and your fragrant lips and your cool

Hands that had touched mine, and that you were beautiful:

And our eyes met, and our hands: and glad and elate

We sought the woods and the fields and the Springtime beyond the City gate.

A number of women, members of Cumann na mBan, participated directly in the Rising.  Among these women was the Theosophist, folklorist and Revival poet Ella Young. A born eccentric, Young survived and went on to teach at Berkeley and to have her work set to music by experimental composer Harry Partch

These poems show something of the influence of Hilda Doolittle.

The Rose

 

The rose that blooms in Paradise

Burns with an ecstasy too sweet

For mortal eyes

But sometimes down the jasper walls

A petal falls

Toward earth and night

To lose it is to lose delight beyond compare

To have it is to have despair

As can be seen, the 1916 poets were a mixed bag; many were tied to the romantic cultural Nationalism of the Revival, looking back to an idealised Ireland that never was but without the imaginative power of a Yeats. Others were interested in new movements and ideas and radical approaches to writing verse. In this, the poetry of the Rising reflects its politics. Easter 1916 was a coming together of dreamers and realists, nationalists and socialists, radicals and conservatives united more by a cause than an ideology, a cause they were willing to die for. And die many of them did.

The story of Francis Ledwidge is equally reflective of the politics and confusion of the time. His poem ‘Lament for the Poets: 1916’ reflects his friendship with those poets, especially McDonagh. Ledwidge was active in the Irish Volunteers but played no part in the rising, largely because he was serving in the British Army at the time. He died in 1917 in Passchendaele. Had he lived, he might have found the new Ireland an inhospitable place for a retired British soldier.

Lament for the Poets: 1916

 

I HEARD the Poor Old Woman say:

“At break of day the fowler came,

And took my blackbirds from their songs

Who loved me well thro’ shame and blame.

 

No more from lovely distances

Their songs shall bless me mile by mile,

Nor to white Ashbourne call me down

To wear my crown another while.

 

With bended flowers the angels mark

For the skylark the places they lie,

From there its little family

Shall dip their wings first in the sky.

 

And when the first surprise of flight

Sweet songs excite, from the far dawn

Shall there come blackbirds loud with love,

Sweet echoes of the singers gone.

 

But in the lonely hush of eve

Weeping I grieve the silent bills.”

I heard the Poor Old Woman say

In Derry of the little hills.