“One ciarog knows another ciarog,
And why should n't I know you, you rogue?”
“They say a stroller will never pair
Except with one of his kind and care...”
So talked two tinkers prone in the shough —
And then, as the fun got a trifle rough,
They flitted: he with his corn-straw bass,
She with her load of tin and brass:
As mad a match as you would see
In a twelvemonth's ride thro’ Christendie.
He roared — they both were drunk as hell:
She danced, and danced it mighty well!
I could have eyed them longer, but
They staggered for the Quarry Cut:
That half-perch seemed to trouble them more
Than all the leagues they'd tramped before.
Some'll drink at the fair the morrow,
And some'll sup with the spoon of sorrow;
But whether they'll get as far as Droichid
The night — well, who knows that but God?