The daughter of the village Maire Is very fresh and very fair, A dazzling eyeful; She throws upon me such a spell That though my love I dare not te…

You’ve heard of “Casey at The Ba… And “Casey’s Tabble Dote”; But now it’s time To write a rhyme Of “Casey’s Billy—goat.”

How often have I started out With no thought in my noodle, And wandered here and there about, Where fancy bade me toddle; Till feeling faunlike in my glee

I would rather drink than eat, And though I superbly sup, Food, I feel, can never beat Delectation of the cup. Wine it is that crowns the feast;

My folks think I’m a serving maid Each time I visit home; They do not dream I ply a trade As old as Greece or Rome; For if they found I’d fouled thei…

I scanned two lines with some surm… As over Keats I chanced to pore: ‘And there I shut her wild, wild… With kisses four.’ Says I: ‘Why was it only four,

You see that sheaf of slender book… Upon the topmost shelf, At which no browser ever looks, Because they’re by . . . myself; They’re neatly bound in navy blue,

Is it not strange? A year ago to—… With scarce a thought beyond the h… I did my decent job and earned my… Was averagely happy, I’ll be boun… Ay, in my little groove I was con…

Past ash cans and alley cats, Fetid. overflowing gutters, Leprous lines of rancid flats Where the frowsy linen flutters; With a rattle and a jar,

(16th January 1949) I thank whatever gods may be For all the happiness that’s mine; That I am festive, fit and free To savour women, wit and wine;

After working hard all day In the office, How much worse on homeward way My old cough is! Barney’s Bar is gaily lit,

Rosemary has of dolls a dozen, Yet she disdains them all; While Marie Rose, her pauper cous… Has just an old rag doll. But you should see her mother it,

Dusting my books I spent a busy d… Not ancient toes, time—hallowed an… but modern volumes, classics in th… whose makers now are numbered with… Men of a generation more than mine…

On the ragged edge of the world I… And the home of the wolf shall be… And a bunch of bones on the boundl… The end of my trail . . . who know… I’m dreaming to—night in the fire—…

You ask me what I call Success — It is, I wonder, Happiness? It is not wealth, it is not fame, Nor rank, nor power nor honoured n… It is not triumph in the Arts —