The Song of a Wandering Touch Player
I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head.
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
In the traditional Irish poetic form the aisling, the poet feels weak from thinking of the woes that have overtaken the Irish Gaels and he falls into a deep slumber. In his dreaming, a figure of radiant beauty draws near, so bright, so stately; she is Erin, the nation of Ireland and she is filled with sorrow.
MALLEYMAN 