| Louis Untermeyer, ed. (1885–1977). Modern British Poetry. 1920. |
| |
| James Stephens. 1882– |
| |
| 125. To the Four Courts, Please |
| |
| THE driver rubbed at his nettly chin | |
| With a huge, loose forefinger, crooked and black, | |
| And his wobbly, violet lips sucked in, | |
| And puffed out again and hung down slack: | |
| One fang shone through his lop-sided smile, | 5 |
| In his little pouched eye flickered years of guile. | |
| |
| And the horse, poor beast, it was ribbed and forked, | |
| And its ears hung down, and its eyes were old, | |
| And its knees were knuckly, and as we talked | |
| It swung the stiff neck that could scarcely hold | 10 |
| Its big, skinny head up—then I stepped in, | |
| And the driver climbed to his seat with a grin. | |
| |
| God help the horse and the driver too, | |
| And the people and beasts who have never a friend, | |
| For the driver easily might have been you, | 15 |
| And the horse be me by a different end. | |
| And nobody knows how their days will cease, | |
| And the poor, when they're old, have little of peace. | |
|
|
