Interlude

O, the fun, the fun and

That The Wind that Shakes the

Scatters through a

Tickled with artistic fingers!

Kate the scrubber (forty summers,

Stout but sportive) treads a measure,

Grinning, in herself a ballet,

Fixed as fate upon her audience.

Stumps are shaking, crutch-supported;

Splinted fingers tap the rhythm;

And a head all helmed with

Wags a measured approbation.

Of their mattress-life oblivious,

All the patients, brisk and cheerful,

Are encouraging the dancer,

And applauding the musician.

Dim the gas-lights in the

Of so many ardent smokers,

Full of shadow lurch the corners,

And the doctor peeps and passes.

There are, maybe, some

Of an alcoholic presence . . .'Tak' a sup of this, my wumman!' . . .

New Year comes but once a twelvemonth.