1.

Must I being born Irish
and with black eyes
and black hair
and the white skin of the hot-blooded

be always a mad boy
fighting the wind
coaxing the sun to play
thundering at thunder
spitting at lightning
hitting out with my knuckles
at the rough bark of trees.

And why must I tear past the Sassenachs
who march with steady blue eyes
as if I were a wind that had picked up blood
and wanted to spill it against sharp rock.

Why should I being black-browed Irish
Appear like a black moon in the gray dawn
And drive all the white-faced boys into a corner
Into a pale yellow mist as if they had been eaten
and their limbs showed through
lumps twisting and shifting.

O but the mother of my Jesus never sings nor laughs
And the name Mary will be always a sad name to me
And the thought of dying will be always a sad thought to me
And though the grog warms my bones even
The thought of God is terrible enough
To chill me through and through.