Stranger: What kind your people are I would wish to know - Round-shouldered men like rolling-stock? Great in despair Simple in prayer And their hard hands tear The soil on the rock Where the plough cannot go? Poet: 'Tis not so. Faint-hearted folk my people are To Poverty's house they have never invited The giant Pride, But await the hour when wrongs are righted. They till their fields and scrape among the stones Because they cannot all be policemen - They work because they cannot eat the stones. Stranger: Poet be fair You surely must have seen Beneath these rags of care Hearts that were not mean And cowardly and faint? Poet: O stranger why Should poet seek to prove The lean purse of a saint? For one in love Would never sharply pry Into the quiet cove Where all that is God's Is safe from the hurtling clods. I cannot give you what you wish But I shall give you other things I shall pile your dish With the flesh historian's find on Irish kings. Stranger: I will go To my townfull [sic] of vermin That sways to-and-fro Like fool-heads at a sermon. I shall pour out for them The vitriol of Hell, And may Christ condemn My name if I tell Of the jewels your folk Hide in a thin cloak.