Halloweve: A Glensman Speaks, 1952


As we came up the brae last night at twelve
after a ceilidhe down at Ballybrack,
a wild coarse night of storm with scuds of rain
and a gale roaring over Tieveragh,
I said in fun: ‘A poor night for the fairies;
they’ll not stir far, for all it’s Halloweve.’
And then we crossed the stile at our old neighbour’s;
a wallstead of a place where that man lives,
with not a soul to lift a pot for him.
A cross wee man, our neighbour, off and on,
he’s closed that stile against us out of spite,
and threatened law about the right of way;
but I don’y heed him; for a stile’s a stile
and strong enough for juries. From the lane
we saw his front door open to the world
and, in beyond, the low room door was wide,
and a big fire blazing on the hearth,
but not a sign of him as we stepped by;
and we both thought it odd a man should keep
his house broad open on a night like this;
a man not known to look for visitors.