m little bumboat I chanced for to meet!
Blow, bullies, blow the man down!
A trim little bumboat I chanced for to meet!
Give us some time till we blow the man down!

She was round in the counter and bluff in the bows!
Yo-ho! Blow the man down!
She was round in the counter and bluff in the bows!
Give us some time till we blow the man down.
Blow the man down!
Blow, bullies! Blow the man down!

PART TWO

THE WAKE AT ARDEE

Section 1

The feeling that was uppermost in him as he sat outside the thatched
cottage in the moonlight, while the wake was within, was not grief at
his wife's death; not a shattered mind that his life, so carefully laid
out not twelve months before, was disoriented; not any self-pity; not
any grievance against God, such as little men might have: but a strange
dumb wonder. There she lay within, in her habit of a Dominican lay
sister, her hands waxy, her face waxy, her eyelids closed. And six
guttering candles were about her, and women droned their prayers with a
droning as of bees. There she lay with her hands clasped on a wooden
crucifix. And no more would the robins wake her, and they fussing in the
great hawthorn-tree over the coming of dawn. No longer would she rake
the ash from the peat and blow the red of it to a little blaze. No
longer would she beat his dog out of the house with the handle of the
broom. No longer would she forgather with the neighbors over a pot of
tea for a pleasant vindictive chat. No longer would she look out to sea
for him with her half-loving, half-inimical eyes. No longer in her
sharpish voice would she recite her rosary and go to bed.

And to-morrow they would bury her--there would be rain to-morrow: the
wind was sou'east,--they would lower her, gently as though she were
alive, into a rectangular slot in the ground, mutter alien prayers in an
alien tongue with business of white magic, pat the mound over as a child
pats his castle of sand on the sea-shore, and leave her there in the
rain.

A month from now they would say a mass for her, a year from now another,
but to-morrow, to-day, yesterday even, she was finished with all of
life: with the fussy, excited robins of dawn; with the old dog that
wanted to drowse by the fire; with the young husband who was either too
much or too little of a man for her; with the clicking beads she would
tell in her sharpish voice; with each thing; with everything.

And here was the wonder of