To Garryowen upon an organ ground

Two girls are jigging. Riotously they trip,

With eyes aflame, quick bosoms, hand on hip,

As in the tumult of a witches’ round.

Youngsters and youngsters round them prance and bound.

Two solemn babes twirl ponderously, and skip.

The artist’s teeth gleam from his bearded lip.

High from the kennel howls a tortured hound.

The music reels and hurtles, and the night

Is full of stinks and cries; a naphtha-light

Flares from a barrow; battered and obtused

With vices, wrinkles, life and work and rags,

Each with her inch of clay, two loitering hags

Look on dispassionate — critical — something ’mused.