Created
October 5, 2013 09:59
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DUBLIN MADE ME | |
Dublin made me and no little town | |
With the country closing in on its streets | |
The cattle walking proudly on its pavements | |
The jobbers, the gombeenmen and the cheats | |
Devouring the fair-day between them | |
A public house to half a hundred men | |
And the teacher, the solicitor and the bank-clerk | |
In the hotel bar drinking for ten. | |
Dublin made me, not the secret poteen still | |
The raw and hungry hills of the West | |
The lean road flung over profitless bog | |
Where only a snipe could nest | |
Where the sea takes its tithe of every boat. | |
Bawneen and currach have no allegiance of mine, | |
Nor the cute self-deceiving talkers of the South | |
Who look to the East for a sign. | |
The soft and dreary midlands with their tame canals | |
Wallow between sea and sea, remote from adventure | |
And Northward a far and fortified province | |
Crouches under the lash of arid censure. | |
I disclaim all fertile meadows, all tilled land | |
The evil that grows from it and the good, | |
But the Dublin of old statutes, this arrogant city | |
Stirs proudly and secretly in my blood. |
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