Green Harvest Stubble
Source: The Stone Fiddle by Paddy Tunney
Location: New Edition, page 180
My lasting love, my joy supreme, in autumn lean I looked from me,
And found the wine of wisdom old in hazeled health on nutting-tree.
Your features fair as any rose, your heels and hose old hags begrudge.
My grief that we’re not on the foam beyond their hate and elbow-nudge.
The heroes of this haggered small wear skrunken eels on handstaff-head.
Their buailtins flash on old barn door, they shout and roar of bridal bed.
But if the king of Holy Spain would smuggle grain and grapes once more,
I’d spill their blood on stumps and sand and hold your hand for evermore.
If I were with my wee brown girl beyond the span of Barra’s oak,
The buying and the selling men would twist their beards and long pipes smoke,
Until they break asunder the top branch and the bridled broom,
The wonder of such whitened flame would wave and swan in love consume.
Last Sunday tidings came to me as gossips, gabbled over cups,
That my brown girl was going to wed with one who had more downs than ups.
My darling, take your love’s advice and do not splice till Easter day,
When we’ll be safe beyond their sight and wicked spite far, far away.