I Am Not Yet Born; O Fill

I Was The Rector's Son, Born To The Anglican Order, Banned For Ever From The Candles Of The Irish Poor; The Chichesters Knelt In Marble At The End Of A Transept With Ruffs About Their Necks, Their Portion Sure.

Down The Road Someone Is Practicing Scales, The Notes Like Little Fishes Vanish With A Wink Of Tails

Up The Rebels, To Hell With The Pope, And God Save--as You Prefer--the King Or Ireland. The Land Of Scholars And Saints: Scholars And Saints My Eye, The Land Of Ambush, Purblind Manifestoes, Never-ending Complaints

It's No Go The Picture Palace, It's No Go The Stadium, It's No Go The Country Cot With A Pot Of Pink Geraniums. It's No Go The Government Grants, It's No Go The Elections, Sit On Your Arse For Fifty Years And Hang Your Hat On A Pension.

The Sunlight On The Garden Hardens And Grows Cold, We Cannot Cage The Minute Within Its Nets Of Gold