A Broadside: No. 6

A Broadside: No. 6

Cuala Press

Dun Emer Press

Ireland

Irish Literary Revival

The Gaelic Revival

PUBLISHED MONTHLY BY E.C. YEATS AT THE CUALA PRESS, CHURCHTOWN, DUNDRUM, COUNTY DUBLIN. SUBSCRIPTION TWELVE SHILLINGS A YEAR POST FREE.
300 copies only.

The woodcut on page [3] has caption: "BONEY'S ORACULUM". Signed Jack B. Yeats.

Jack B. Yeats

James Stephens

Cuala Press

November, 1908.

THE RIO GRANDE
CAPSTAN CHANTY
Where are you going to, my pretty maid?
O away Rio;
Where are you going to, my pretty maid?
We are bound to the Rio Grande.
O away Rio,
O away Rio,
O fare you well, my bonny young girl,
We are bound to the Rio Grande.

Have you a sweetheart, my pretty maid?
O away Rio;
Have you a sweetheart, my pretty maid?
We are bound to the Rio Grande.
O away Rio,
O away Rio,
O fare you well, my bonny young girl,
We are bound to the Rio Grande.

May I go with you, my pretty maid?
O away Rio;
May I go with you, my pretty maid?
We are bound to the Rio Grande.
O away Rio,
O away Rio,
O fare you well, my bonny young girl,
We are bound to the Rio Grande.

I'm afraid you're a bad one, kind sir, she replied,
O away Rio,
I'm afraid you're a bad one, kind sir, she replied,
We are bound to the Rio Grande.
O away Rio,
O away Rio,
O fare you well, my bonny young girl,
We are bound to the Rio Grande.

WHERE THE DEMONS GRIN
The hill was low, but stretched away
A straggling mile or so to where
The sea was stamping, tossing spray
Beyond its bulwarks black and bare:
A sullen sea of grey.

The grasses jerked as they were stung
By vicious winds. A daisy's head
Crouched in a tuft, till it was flung
From its uneasy troubled bed
And tos't the waves among.

Ans all the woeful things he said-
Ah me, the twitching of his lips-
Of hungry children craving bread,
And fortune's sideward slips,
And how his wife was dead.

Ah me, it was so desolate,
And sadder for the sea bird's cry
Thrillingly thin. There seemed a weight
Brooding, as if the leaden sky
Hung heavier for hate.

A bent old man was climbing slow
(With weary step and plodding pace)
That savage hill, and wild did blow
A bitter wind in headlong race
Harsh from the sea below.

He held a rope, and as he trod
Pressing against the furious wind;
He cried aloud and laughed at God,
And said he sure was deaf or blind,
Or lazing on the sod.

And what was done I will not tell -
There is a bent tree on the top
Of that low hill, there you can see
The sequel of this mystery.
Beneath the moon...I dared not stop...
My God - a demon up from hell,
Jab-jabbered as the old man fell.
James Stephens.

Broadside