O, the fun, the fun and frolic <br />That The Wind that Shakes the Barley <br />Scatters through a penny-whistle <br />Tickled with artistic fingers! <br /> <br />Kate the scrubber (forty summers, <br />Stout but sportive) treads a measure, <br />Grinning, in herself a ballet, <br />Fixed as fate upon her audience. <br /> <br />Stumps are shaking, crutch-supported; <br />Splinted fingers tap the rhythm; <br />And a head all helmed with plasters <br />Wags a measured approbation. <br /> <br />Of their mattress-life oblivious, <br />All the patients, brisk and cheerful, <br />Are encouraging the dancer, <br />And applauding the musician. <br /> <br />Dim the gas-lights in the output <br />Of so many ardent smokers, <br />Full of shadow lurch the corners, <br />And the doctor peeps and passes. <br /> <br />There are, maybe, some suspicions <br />Of an alcoholic presence . . . <br />'Tak' a sup of this, my wumman!' . . . <br />New Year comes but once a twelvemonth.<br /><br />William Ernest Henley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/interlude-15/
