The Hour Before Dawn

    A bundle of rags upon a crutch，

    Stumbled upon that windy place

    Called Cruachan，1 and it was as much

    As the one sturdy leg could do

    To keep him upright while he cursed.

    He had counted， where long years ago

    Queen Maeve‘s nine Maines had been nursed，

    A pair of lapwings， one old sheep，

    And not a house to the plain‘s edge，

    When close to his right hand a heap

    Of grey stones and a rocky ledge

    Reminded him that he could make，

    If he but shifted a few stones，

    A shelter till the daylight broke.

    But while he fumbled with the stones

    They toppled over； ‘Were it not

    I have a lucky wooden shin

    I had been hurt‘； and toppling brought

    Before his eyes， where stones had been，

    A dark deep hollow in the rock.

    He gave a gasp and thought to have fled，

    Being certain it was no right rock

    Because an ancient history said

    Hell Mouth lay open near that place，

    And yet stood still， because inside

    A great lad with a beery face

    Had tucked himself away beside

    A ladle and a tub of beer，

    And snored， no phantom by his look.

    So with a laugh at his own fear

    He crawled into that pleasant nook.

    ‘Night grows uneasy near the dawn

    Till even I sleep light； but who

    Has tired of his own company？

    What one of Maeve‘s nine brawling sons

    Sick of his grave has wakened me？

    But let him keep his grave for once

    That I may find the sleep I have lost.‘

    ‘What care I if you sleep or wake？

    But I‘ll have no man call me ghost.’

    ‘Say what you please， but from daybreak

    I‘ll sleep another century.’

    ‘And I will talk before I sleep

    And drink before I talk.‘

    And he

    Had dipped the wooden ladle deep

    Into the sleeper‘s tub of beer

    Had not the sleeper started up.

    ‘Before you have dipped it in the beer

    I dragged from Goban‘s mountain- top

    I‘ll have assurance that you are able

    To value beer； no half-legged fool

    Shall dip his nose into my ladle

    Merely for stumbling on this hole

    In the bad hour before the dawn.‘

    ‘Why， beer is only beer.’

    ‘But say

    “I‘ll sleep until the winter’s gone，

    Or maybe to Midsummer Day，“

    And drink， and you will sleep that length.‘

    ‘I’d like to sleep till winter‘s gone

    Or till the sun is in his strength.

    This blast has chilled me to the bone.‘

    ‘I had no better plan at first.

    I thought to wait for that or this；

    Maybe the weather was accursed

    Or I had no woman there to kiss；

    So slept for half a year or so；

    But year by year I found that less

    Gave me such pleasure I‘d forgo

    Even a half-hour‘s nothingness，

    And when at one year‘s end I found

    I had not waked a single minute，

    I chose this burrow under ground.

    I‘ll sleep away all time within it：

    My sleep were now nine centuries

    But for those mornings when I find

    The lapwing at their foolish cries

    And the sheep bleating at the wind

    As when I also played the fool.‘

    The beggar in a rage began

    Upon his hunkers in the hole，

    ‘It’s plain that you are no right man

    To mock at everything I love

    As if it were not worth the doing.

    I‘d have a merry life enough

    If a good Easter wind were blowing，

    And though the winter wind is bad

    I should not be too down in the mouth

    For anything you did or said

    If but this wind were in the south.‘

    ‘You cry aloud， O would ’twere spring

    Or that the wind would shift a point，

    And do not know that you would bring，

    If time were suppler in the joint，

    Neither the spring nor the south wind

    But the hour when you shall pass away

    And leave no smoking wick behind，

    For all life longs for the Last Day

    And there‘s no man but cocks his ear

    To know when Michael‘s trumpet cries

    That flesh and bone may disappear，

    And souls as if they were but sighs，

    And there be nothing but God left；

    But I alone being blessèd keep

    Like some old rabbit to my cleft

    And wait Him in a drunken sleep.‘

    He dipped his ladle in the tub

    And drank and yawned and stretched him out，

    The other shouted， ‘You would rob

    My life of every pleasant thought

    And every comfortable thing，

    And so take that and that.‘ Thereon

    He gave him a great pummelling，

    But might have pummelled at a stone

    For all the sleeper knew or cared；

    And after heaped up stone on stone，

    And then， grown weary， prayed and cursed

    And heaped up stone on stone again，

    And prayed and cursed and cursed and fled

    From Maeve and all that juggling plain，

    Nor gave God thanks till overhead

    The clouds were brightening with the dawn.