THE TINKERS

“One ciarog knows another ciarog,

And why should n't I know you, you rogue?”

“They say a stroller will never pair

Except with one of his kind and care...”

So talked two tinkers prone in the shough —

And then, as the fun got a trifle rough,

They flitted: he with his corn-straw bass,

She with her load of tin and brass:

As mad a match as you would see

In a twelvemonth's ride thro’ Christendie.

He roared — they both were drunk as hell:

She danced, and danced it mighty well!

I could have eyed them longer, but

They staggered for the Quarry Cut:

That half-perch seemed to trouble them more

Than all the leagues they'd tramped before.

Some'll drink at the fair the morrow,

And some'll sup with the spoon of sorrow;

But whether they'll get as far as Droichid

The night — well, who knows that but God?