RIGHTEOUS ANGER 

 The lanky hank of a she in the inn over there Nearly killed me for asking the loan of a glass of beer: May the devil grip the whey-faced slut by the hair, And beat bad manners out of her skin for a year. 

 That parboiled imp, with the hardest jaw you will see On virtue's path, and a voice that would rasp the dead, Came roaring and raging the minute she looked at me, And threw me out of the house on the back of my head! 

 If I asked her master he'd give me a cask a day; But she, with the beer at hand, not a gill would arrange! May she marry a ghost and bear him a kitten, and may The High King of Glory permit her to get the mange. 

 

 

 THE WEAVERS 

 Many a time your father gave me aid When I was down, and now I'm down again: You mustn't take it bad or be dismayed Because I say, young folk should help old men And 'tis their duty to do that: Amen! 

 I have no cows, no sheep, no cloak, no hat, For those who used to give me things are dead And my luck died with them: because of that I won't pay you a farthing, but, instead, I'll owe you till the dead rise from the dead. 

 A farthing! that's not much, but, all the same, I haven't half a farthing, for that grand Big idiot called Fortune rigged the game And gave me nothing, while she filled the hand Of every stingy devil in the land. 

 You weave, and I: you shirts: I weave instead My careful verse—but you get paid at times! The only rap I get is on my head: But should it come again that men like rhymes And pay for them, I'll pay you for your shirt. 

 

 

 ODELL 

 My mind is sad and weary thinking how The griffins of the Gael went over the sea From noble Eiré, and are fighting now In France and Flanders and in Germany. 

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