The First Play I Wrote Was Called

From The Sons Of Ith, The First Of The Gael To Get His Death In Ireland, There Came In The After Time Fathadh Canaan, That Got The Sway Over The Whole World From The Rising To The Setting Sun, And That Took Hostages Of The Streams And The Birds And The Languages.

I Was Told In Many Places Of Osgar's Bravery And Goll's Strength And Conan's Bitter Tongue, And The Arguments Of Oisin And Patrick. And I Have Often Been Given The Story Of Oisin's Journey To Tir-nan-og, The Country Of The Young, That Is, As I Am Told, A Fine Place And Everything That Is Good Is In It.

I Don't Know In The World Why Anyone Would Consent To Be A King, And Never To Be Left To Himself, But To Be Worried And Wearied And Interfered With From Dark To Daybreak And From Morning To The Fall Of Night.

The Time The Moon Is Going Back, The Blood That Is In A Person Does Be Weakening, But When The Moon Is Strong, The Blood That Moves Strong In The Same Way. And It To Be At The Full, It Drags The Wits Along With It, The Same As It Drags The Tide.

In My Childhood There Was Every Year At My Old Home, Roxborough, Or, As It Is Called In Irish, Cregroostha, A Great Sheep-shearing That Lasted Many Days. On The Last Evening There Was Always A Dance For The Shearers And Their Helpers, And Two Pipers Used To Sit On Chairs Placed On A Corn-bin To Make Music For The Dance.