( IN DUBLIN )
I gave her bread and bid her lead me home,
For kilt she was with standing in the cold,
An' she, the creature, not turned eight years old,
She went before me on her small bare feet,
Clutching some papers not yet sold,
Down Westland Row and up Great Brunswick Street.
Sometimes she'd turn and peer
Into my face with eyes of fear.
She'd hunch her rags in hope to find some heat,
And stare at shops where they sold things to eat.
Then suddenly she turned,
And where a street lamp burned
Led me along a narrow, dirty lane;
Dim glass and broken pane
Stood for the windows. Every shadowed door
Held children of the poor.
That sheltered from the rain.
Through one dark door she slipped and bid me come
For this was home.
A narrow stair we had to climb
To reach the topmost floor.
A hundred years of grime
Clung to the walls, and time
Had worked its will. Tenants the like o' these
The landlords don't be planning how they'll please.
A smell was in it made you hold your breath:
These dirty houses pay the tax to death
In babies' lives. But sure they swarm like bees,
Who'd wonder at disease?
The room held little but a depth o' dark;
A woman stirred and spoke the young one's name.
The fire showed no spark,
But presently there came
A slipeen of a girl who made a flame
By burning paper, holding it torch-fashion,
Thinking, maybe, the place would stir compassion.
A dirty mattress and a lidless chest
That served for cradle; near it stood
A table of dark painted wood;
Foreninst the grate a chair
With three legs good.
The place was bare
Of any sign of food.
The light burnt out. The young one found more paper
And kindled it for taper,
This time I saw above the bed
Our Lady in a robe of blue,
A picture of our Saviour's head,
Thorn-crowned. The light fell too
On the child's frightened face,
The wretched dirty place.
And so I spoke of what the priests might do,
Of them that help in such a case.
They'd send the child to some good Home,
And never let her roam
About the streets, half-dead
With cold and hunger.
They'd teach her and befriend her,
Wash her and mend her,
They'd see her clothed and fed,
And in a decent bed.
She'd have her brush and comb.
From every sort of hurt
They would defend her.
All this I said,
And paused to let them speak.
The child had caught her mother's skirt
And pressed her cheek
Against her arm,
As if she feared some harm.
So, clasping her, the mother shook her head.
“You have a right,” said she,
“To leave her here with me.
Heart-broke in such a place she'd be—
The creature loves her home.”
I gave her bread and bid her lead me home,
For kilt she was with standing in the cold,
An' she, the creature, not turned eight years old,
She went before me on her small bare feet,
Clutching some papers not yet sold,
Down Westland Row and up Great Brunswick Street.
Sometimes she'd turn and peer
Into my face with eyes of fear.
She'd hunch her rags in hope to find some heat,
And stare at shops where they sold things to eat.
Then suddenly she turned,
And where a street lamp burned
Led me along a narrow, dirty lane;
Dim glass and broken pane
Stood for the windows. Every shadowed door
Held children of the poor.
That sheltered from the rain.
Through one dark door she slipped and bid me come
For this was home.
A narrow stair we had to climb
To reach the topmost floor.
A hundred years of grime
Clung to the walls, and time
Had worked its will. Tenants the like o' these
The landlords don't be planning how they'll please.
A smell was in it made you hold your breath:
These dirty houses pay the tax to death
In babies' lives. But sure they swarm like bees,
Who'd wonder at disease?
The room held little but a depth o' dark;
A woman stirred and spoke the young one's name.
The fire showed no spark,
But presently there came
A slipeen of a girl who made a flame
By burning paper, holding it torch-fashion,
Thinking, maybe, the place would stir compassion.
A dirty mattress and a lidless chest
That served for cradle; near it stood
A table of dark painted wood;
Foreninst the grate a chair
With three legs good.
The place was bare
Of any sign of food.
The light burnt out. The young one found more paper
And kindled it for taper,
This time I saw above the bed
Our Lady in a robe of blue,
A picture of our Saviour's head,
Thorn-crowned. The light fell too
On the child's frightened face,
The wretched dirty place.
And so I spoke of what the priests might do,
Of them that help in such a case.
They'd send the child to some good Home,
And never let her roam
About the streets, half-dead
With cold and hunger.
They'd teach her and befriend her,
Wash her and mend her,
They'd see her clothed and fed,
And in a decent bed.
She'd have her brush and comb.
From every sort of hurt
They would defend her.
All this I said,
And paused to let them speak.
The child had caught her mother's skirt
And pressed her cheek
Against her arm,
As if she feared some harm.
So, clasping her, the mother shook her head.
“You have a right,” said she,
“To leave her here with me.
Heart-broke in such a place she'd be—
The creature loves her home.”