XVII — INTERLUDE

O, the fun, the fun and frolic

That The Wind that Shakes the Barley

Scatters through a penny-whistle

Tickled with artistic fingers!

Kate the scrubber ( forty summers,

Stout but sportive ) treads a measure,

Grinning, in herself a ballet,

Fixed as fate upon her audience.

Stumps are shaking, crutch-supported;

Splinted fingers tap the rhythm;

And a head all helmed with plasters

Wags a measured approbation.

Of their mattress-life oblivious,

All the patients, brisk and cheerful,

Are encouraging the dancer,

And applauding the musician.

Dim the gas-lights in the output

Of so many ardent smokers,

Full of shadow lurch the corners,

And the doctor peeps and passes.

There are, maybe, some suspicions

Of an alcoholic presence...

‘ Tak’ a sup of this, my wumman!’...

New Year comes but once a twelvemonth.