The Poetry Corner

The Weavers

By James Stephens

Many a time your father gave me aid When I was down, and now I'm down again: You mustn't take it bad or be dismayed Because I say, young folk should help old men And 'tis their duty to do that: Amen! I have no cows, no sheep, no cloak, no hat, For those who used to give me things are dead And my luck died with them: because of that I won't pay you a farthing, but, instead, I'll owe you till the dead rise from the dead. A farthing! that's not much, but, all the same, I haven't half a farthing, for that grand Big idiot called Fortune rigged the game And gave me nothing, while she filled the hand Of every stingy devil in the land. You weave, and I: you shirts: I weave instead My careful verse, but you get paid at times! The only rap I get is on my head: But should it come again that men like rhymes And pay for them, I'll pay you for your shirt.