TINKER'S MOON Four children on a rumbling cart, A woman trudging beside that load, A lank man leaving the horse to guide A wet road: a dry road: A gravelly road that a woman shall walk And a lank man leave the horse to guide; The tinker's children take their chance, and bide. A lane leads on to one more lane, An uphill to one more hill; A potato patch to thin on the way, a hen to kill. And hunger again: and sleep again: And a moonlight flit while the salmon leaps >From a smouldering spot by the riverside; The tinker's children take their chance, and bide. When Wicklow woods first seemed to wait, As still they wait tonight: I heard that creaking, rumbling cart, And stars the same were out. When you gave pennies to the youngest child, A silent child: a tawny child: The tinker's children meekly are, and mild. And still I hear strange woods among Whenever a creaking cart goes down; The singsong twang of that bawneen man: "Thank you my lady, thank you my lady." As when you gave the child a penny. I hear it in an Irish voice to-day, And saw again though long gone by Four children on a rumbling cart, A woman trudging beside that load, A lank man leaving the horse to guide A wet road: a dry road: A gravelly road for a moonlight flit >From a smouldering spot by the riverside; I saw the stony, rocky road where the tinker's children bide. -- Ewart Milne (1903- )