'Tis long since, long since, since I heardA tin-whistle played,
And heard the tunes, the ha'penny
That nobody made!
The tunes that were before
And Cir went Ireland's
That were before the
That strings have given sounds!
And now is standing in the mist,
And jigging backward there,
Shrilling with fingers and with breath,
A tin-whistle player!
He has hare's eyes, a long face
Around with badger-grey;
Aimless, like cries of mountain
The tunes he has to
The tunes that are for stretches bare,
And men whose lives are
And I had seen that face of
Sculptured on cross of stone,
That long face, in a place of
With nettles overgrown.
