O, the fun, the fun and frolic br That The Wind that Shakes the Barley br Scatters through a penny-whistle br Tickled with artistic fingers! br br Kate the scrubber (forty summers, br Stout but sportive) treads a measure, br Grinning, in herself a ballet, br Fixed as fate upon her audience. br br Stumps are shaking, crutch-supported; br Splinted fingers tap the rhythm; br And a head all helmed with plasters br Wags a measured approbation. br br Of their mattress-life oblivious, br All the patients, brisk and cheerful, br Are encouraging the dancer, br And applauding the musician. br br Dim the gas-lights in the output br Of so many ardent smokers, br Full of shadow lurch the corners, br And the doctor peeps and passes. br br There are, maybe, some suspicions br Of an alcoholic presence . . . br 'Tak' a sup of this, my wumman!' . . . br New Year comes but once a twelvemonth.