his songs.  And a while ago, he had turned into a cabin that some poor man had left to go harvesting and had never come to again.  And when he had mended the thatch and made a bed in the corner with a few sacks and bushes, and had swept out the floor, he was well content to have a little place for himself, where he could go in and out as he liked, and put his head in his hands through the length of an evening if the fret was on him, and loneliness after the old times.  One by one the neighbours began to send their children in to get some learning from him, and with what they brought, a few eggs or an oaten cake or a couple of sods of turf, he made out a way of living.  And if he went for a wild day and night now and again to the Burrough, no one would say a word, knowing him to be a poet, with wandering in his heart.

It was from the Burrough he was coming that May morning, light-hearted enough, and singing some new song that had come to him.  But it was not long till a hare ran across his path, and made away into the fields, through the loose stones of the wall.  And he knew it was no good sign a hare to have crossed his path, and he remembered the hare that had led him away to Slieve Echtge the time Mary Lavelle was waiting for him, and how he had never known content for any length of time since then.  ’And it is likely enough they are putting some bad thing before me now,’ he said.

And after he said that he heard the sound of crying in the field beside him, and he looked over the wall.  And there he saw a young girl sitting under a bush of white hawthorn, and crying as if her heart would break.  Her face was hidden in her hands, but her soft hair and her white neck and the young look of her, put him in mind of Bridget Purcell and Margaret Gillane and Maeve Connelan and Oona Curry and Celia Driscoll, and the rest of the girls he had made songs for and had coaxed the heart from with his flattering tongue.

She looked up, and he saw her to be a girl of the neighbours, a farmer’s daughter.  ‘What is on you, Nora?’ he said.  ’Nothing you could take from me, Red Hanrahan.’  ’If there is any sorrow on you it is I myself should be well able to serve you,’ he said then, ’for it is I know the history of the Greeks, and I know well what sorrow is and parting, and the hardship of the world.  And if I am not able to save you from trouble,’ he said, ’there is many a one I have saved from it with the power that is in my songs, as it was in the songs of the poets that were before me from the beginning of the world.  And it is with the rest of the poets I myself will be sitting and talking in some far place beyond the world, to the end of life and time,’ he said.  The girl stopped her crying, and she said, ’Owen Hanrahan, I often heard you have had sorrow and persecution, and that you know all the troubles of the world since the time you refused your love to the queen-woman in Slieve Echtge; and that she never left you in quiet since.  But when it is people of this earth that have harmed you, it is yourself knows well the way to put harm on them again.  And will you do now what I ask you, Owen Hanrahan?’ she said.  ’I will do that indeed,’ said he.