The Meditation of the Old Fisherman

You waves， though you dance by my feet like children at play，

    Though you glow and you glance， though you purr and you dart¹；

    In the Junes that were warmer than these are， the waves were more gay，

    When I was a boy with never a crack in my heart.

    The herring are not in the tides as they were of old；

    My sorrow！ for many a creak gave the creel in the cart

    That carried the take to Sligo town to be sold，

    When I was a boy with never a crack in my heart.

    And ah， you proud maiden²， you are not so fair when his oar³

    Is heard on the water， as they were， the proud and apart，

    Who paced in the eve by the nets on the pebbly⁴ shore，

    When I was a boy with never a crack in my heart.