The Hour Before Dawn

A one-legged, one-armed, one-eyed man,A bundle of rags upon a crutch,Stumbled on windy CruachanCursing the wind. It was as muchAs the one sturdy leg could doTo keep him upright while he cursed.He had counted, where long years agoQueen Maeve's nine Maines had been nursed,A pair of lapwings, one old sheepAnd not a house to the plain's edge,When close to his right hand a heapOf grey stones and a rocky ledgeReminded him that he could make,If he but shifted a few stones,A shelter till the daylight broke.But while he fumbled with the stonesThey toppled over; 'Were it notI have a lucky wooden shinI had been hurt'; and toppling broughtBefore his eyes, where stones had been,A dark deep hole in the rock's face.He gave a gasp and thought to run,Being certain it was no right placeBut the Hell Mouth at CruachanThat's stuffed with all that's old and bad,And yet stood still, because insideHe had seen a red-haired jolly ladIn some outlandish coat besideA ladle and a tub of beer,Plainly no phantom by his look.So with a laugh at his own fearHe crawled into that pleasant nook.Young Red-head stretched himself to yawnAnd murmured, 'May God curse the nightThat's grown uneasy near the dawnSo that it seems even I sleep light;And who are you that wakens me?Has one of Maeve's nine brawling sonsGrown tired of his own company?But let him keep his grave for onceI have to find the sleep I have lost.'And then at last being wide awake,'I took you for a brawling ghost,Say what you please, but from day-breakI'll sleep another century.'The beggar deaf to all but hopeWent down upon a hand and kneeAnd took the wooden ladle upAnd would have dipped it in the beerBut the other pushed his hand aside,'Before you have dipped it in the beerThat sacred Goban brewed,' he cried,'I'd have assurance that you are ableTo value beer--I will have no foolDipping his nose into my ladleBecause he has stumbled on this holeIn the bad hour before the dawn.If you but drink that beer and sayI will sleep until the winter's gone,Or maybe, to Midsummer DayYou will sleep that length; and at the firstI waited so for that or this--Because the weather was a-cursedOr I had no woman there to kiss,And slept for half a year or so;But year by year I found that lessGave me such pleasure I'd forgoEven a half hour's nothingness,And when at one year's end I foundI had not waked a single minute,I chose this burrow under ground.I will sleep away all Time within it:My sleep were now nine centuriesBut for those mornings when I findThe lapwing at their foolish criesAnd the sheep bleating at the windAs when I also played the fool.'The beggar in a rage beganUpon his hunkers in the hole,'It's plain that you are no right manTo mock at everything I loveAs if it were not worth the doing.I'd have a merry life enoughIf a good Easter wind were blowing,And though the winter wind is badI should not be too down in the mouthFor anything you did or saidIf but this wind were in the south.'But the other cried, 'You long for springOr that the wind would shift a pointAnd do not know that you would bring,If time were suppler in the joint,Neither the spring nor the south windBut the hour when you shall pass awayAnd leave no smoking wick behind,For all life longs for the Last DayAnd there's no man but cocks his earTo know when Michael's trumpet criesThat flesh and bone may disappear,And souls as if they were but sighs,And there be nothing but God left;But I alone being blessed keepLike some old rabbit to my cleftAnd wait Him in a drunken sleep.'

He dipped his ladle in the tubAnd drank and yawned and stretched him out.The other shouted, 'You would robMy life of every pleasant thoughtAnd every comfortable thingAnd so take that and that.' ThereonHe gave him a great pummelling,But might have pummelled at a stoneFor all the sleeper knew or cared;And after heaped the stones againAnd cursed and prayed, and prayed and cursed:'Oh God if he got loose!' And thenIn fury and in panic fledFrom the Hell Mouth at CruachanAnd gave God thanks that overheadThe clouds were brightening with the dawn.