3 Songs for Tracey Chadwell

Earth, receive an honoured guest, 
William Yeats is laid to rest. 
Let the Irish vessel lie 
Emptied of its poetry.

In the nightmare of the dark, 
All the dogs of Europe bark, 
And the living nations wait, 
Each sequestered in its hate;

Intellectual disgrace 
Stares from every human face, 
And the seas of pity lie 
Locked and frozen in each eye.

Follow, poet, follow right 
To the bottom of the night, 
With your unconstraining voice 
Still persuade us to rejoice;

With the farming of a verse 
Make a vineyard of the curse, 
Sing of human unsuccess 
In a rapture of distress;

In the deserts of the heart 
Let the healing fountain start,
In the prison of his days 
Teach the free man how to praise.

Earth, receive an honoured guest: 
William Yeats is laid to rest.

He disappeared in the dead of winter: 
The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted, 
And snow disfigured the public statues;
The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying, dying, dying day. 
O all the instruments agree 
The day of his death was a dark cold day.

But in the importance and noise of tomorrow 
When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the Bourse, 
And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed, 
And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom, 
A few thousand will think of this day 
As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual. 
O all the instruments agree 
The day of his death was a dark cold day.

It's no go the merrygoround, it's no go the rickshaw,
All we want is a limousine and a ticket for the peepshow.
Their knickers are made of crêpe-de-chine, their shoes are made of python,
Their halls are lined with tiger rugs and their walls with heads of bison.

 ... 

It's no go the Yogi-Man, it's no go Blavatsky,
All we want is a bank balance and a bit of skirt in a taxi.

 ... 

It's no go the gossip column, it's no go the Ceilidh,
All we want is a mother's help and a sugar-stick for the baby.

 ... 

It's no go the Herring Board, it's no go the Bible,
All we want is a packet of fags when our hands are idle.

 ... 
Sit on your arse for fifty years and hang your hat on a pension.

It's no go my honey love, it's no go my poppet;
Work your hands from day to day, the winds will blow the profit.
The glass is falling hour by hour, the glass will fall for ever,
But if you break the bloody glass you won't hold up the weather.