Under the Round Tower
'Although I'd lie lapped up in linenA deal I'd sweat and little earnIf I should live as live the neighbours,'Cried the beggar, Billy Byrne;'Stretch bones till the daylight comeOn great-grandfather's battered tomb.'
Upon a grey old battered tombstoneIn Glendalough beside the stream,Where the O'Byrnes and Byrnes are buried,He stretched his bones and fell in a dreamOf sun and moon that a good hourBellowed and pranced in the round tower;Of golden king and silver lady,Bellowing up and bellowing round,Till toes mastered a sweet measure,Mouth mastered a sweet sound,Prancing round and prancing upUntil they pranced upon the top.
That golden king and that wild ladySang till stars began to fade,Hands gripped in hands, toes close together,Hair spread on the wind they made;That lady and that golden kingCould like a brace of blackbirds sing.
'It's certain that my luck is broken,'That rambling jailbird Billy said;'Before nightfall I'll pick a pocketAnd snug it in a feather-bed,I cannot find the peace of homeOn great-grandfather's battered tomb.'
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