A bundle of rags upon a crutch2，
Stumbled upon that windy place
Called Cruachan，1 and it was as much
As the one sturdy leg could do
To keep him upright while he cursed.
He had counted， where long years ago
Queen Maeves nine Maines had been nursed，
A pair of lapwings， one old sheep，
And not a house to the plains edge，
When close to his right hand a heap
Of grey stones and a rocky ledge3
Reminded him that he could make，
If he but shifted a few stones，
A shelter till the daylight broke.
But while he fumbled4 with the stones
They TOPpled over； Were it not
I have a lucky wooden shin
I had been hurt； and TOPpling brought
Before his eyes， where stones had been，
A dark deep hollow in the rock.
He gave a gasp5 and thought to have fled，
Being certain it was no right rock
Because an ancient history said
Hell Mouth lay open near that place，
And yet stood still， because inside
A great lad with a beery face
Had tucked himself away beside
A ladle and a tub of beer，
And snored， no phantom6 by his look.
So with a laugh at his own fear
He crawled into that pleasant nook.
Night grows uneasy near the dawn
Till even I sleep light； but who
Has tired of his own company？
What one of Maeves nine brawling7 sons
Sick of his grave has wakened me？
But let him keep his grave for once
That I may find the sleep I have lost.
What care I if you sleep or wake？
But Ill have no man call me ghost.
Say what you please， but from daybreak
Ill sleep another century.
And I will talk before I sleep
And drink before I talk.
And he
Had dipped the wooden ladle deep
Into the sleeper8s tub of beer
Had not the sleeper started up.
Before you have dipped it in the beer
I dragged from Gobans mountain- TOP
Ill have assurance that you are able
To value beer； no half-legged fool
Shall dip his nose into my ladle
Merely for stumbling on this hole
In the bad hour before the dawn.
Why， beer is only beer.
But say
Ill sleep until the winters gone，
Or maybe to Midsummer Day，
And drink， and you will sleep that length.
Id like to sleep till winters gone
Or till the sun is in his strength.
This blast has chilled me to the bone.
I had no better plan at first.
I thought to wait for that or this；
Maybe the weather was accursed
Or I had no woman there to kiss；
So slept for half a year or so；
But year by year I found that less
Gave me such pleasure Id forgo9
Even a half-hours nothingness，
And when at one years end I found
I had not waked a single minute，
I chose this burrow10 under ground.
Ill sleep away all time within it：
My sleep were now nine centuries
But for those mornings when I find
The lapwing at their foolish cries
And the sheep bleating11 at the wind
As when I also played the fool.
The beggar in a rage began
Upon his hunkers in the hole，
Its plain that you are no right man
To mock at everything I love
As if it were not worth the doing.
Id have a merry life enough
If a good Easter wind were blowing，
And though the winter wind is bad
I should not be too down in the mouth
For anything you did or said
If but this wind were in the south.
You cry aloud， O would twere spring
Or that the wind would shift a point，
And do not know that you would bring，
If time were suppler12 in the joint13，
Neither the spring nor the south wind
But the hour when you shall pass away
And leave no smoking wick behind，
For all life longs for the Last Day
And theres no man but cocks his ear
To know when Michaels trumpet14 cries
That flesh and bone may disappear，
And souls as if they were but sighs，
And there be nothing but God left；
But I alone being blessd keep
Like some old rabbit to my cleft15
And wait Him in a drunken sleep.
He dipped his ladle in the tub
And drank and yawned and stretched him out，
The other shouted， You would rob
My life of every pleasant thought
And every comfortable thing，
And so take that and that. Thereon
He gave him a great pummelling，
But might have pummelled at a stone
For all the sleeper knew or cared；
And after heaped up stone on stone，
And then， grown weary， prayed and cursed
And heaped up stone on stone again，
And prayed and cursed and cursed and fled
From Maeve and all that juggling16 plain，
Nor gave God thanks till overhead
The clouds were brightening with the dawn.