Poems (Henley)/In the Dials
IN THE DIALS
To Garryowen upon an organ groundTwo girls are jigging. Riotously they trip,With eyes aflame, quick bosoms, hand on hip,As in the tumult of a witches' round.Youngsters and youngsters round them prance and bound.Two solemn babes twirl ponderously, and skip.The artist's teeth gleam from his bearded lip.High from the kennel howls a tortured hound.The music reels and hurtles, and the nightIs full of stinks and cries; a naphtha-lightFlares from a barrow; battered and obtusedWith vices, wrinkles, life and work and rags,Each with her inch of clay, two loitering hagsLook on dispassionate—critical—something 'mused.