In Hospital - XVII - Interlude

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