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ave rotted to flowers and fruit with Adam and all mankind, Or been eaten by wolves athirst for blood, Or burnt on a good tall pyre of wood, In a towering flame, as a heathen should, Or even sat with us here at food, Merrily taking twopenny ale and pork with a pocket-knife; But this was luxury not for one that went for the Simple Life.
The Song Against Songs
The song of the sorrow of Melisande is a weary song and a dreary song, The glory of Mariana's grange had got into great decay, The song of the Raven Never More has never been called a cheery song, And the brightest things in Baudelaire are anything else but gay.
But who will write us a riding song, Or a hunting song or a drinking song, Fit for them that arose and rode When day and the wine were red? But bring me a quart of claret out, And I will write you a clinking song, A song of war and a song of wine And a song to wake the dead.
The song of the fury of Fragolette is a florid song and a torrid song, The song of the sorrow of Tara is sung to a harp unstrung, The song of the cheerful Shropshire Lad I consider a perfectly horrid song, And the song of the happy Futurist is a song that can't be sung.
But who will write us a riding song Or a fighting song or a drinking song, Fit for the fathers of you and me, That knew how to think and thrive? But the song of Beauty and Art and Love Is simply an utterly stinking song, To double you up and drag you down And damn your soul alive.
Me Heart
I come from Castlepatrick, and me heart is on me sleeve, And any sword or pistol boy can hit it with me leave, It shines there for an epaulette, as golden as a flame, As naked as me ancestors, as noble as me name. For I come from Castlepatrick, and me heart is on me sleeve, But a lady stole it from me on St. Gallowglass's Eve.
The folk that live in Liverpool, their heart is in their boots; They go to hell like lambs, they do, because the hooter hoots. Where men may not be dancin', though the wheels may dance all day; And men may not be smokin'; but only chimneys may. But I come from Castlepatrick, and me heart is on me sleeve, But a lady stole it from me on St. Poleander's Eve.
The folk that live in black Belfast, their heart is in their mouth, They see us making murders in the meadows of the South; They think a plough's a rack, they do, and cattle-calls are creeds, And they think we're burnin' witches when we're only burnin' weeds; But I come from Castlepatrick, and me heart is on me sleeve; But a lady stole it from me on St. Barnabas's Eve.
The Song of the Oak
The Druids waved their golden knives And danced around the Oak When they had sacrificed a man; But though the learned search and scan, No single modern person can Entirely see the joke. But though they cut the throats of men They cut not down the tree, And from the blood the saplings sprang Of oak-woods yet to be. But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood, He rots the tree as ivy would, He clings and crawls as ivy would About the sacred tree.
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