Packy McGee. I am young Packy McGee. I am young
Packy McGee of Ballymore, and I don't care who knows it. Is there any
decent man in this fair that considers himself the equal of young Packy
McGee?" And he walked through the fair, chanting his litany and gently
swinging the woman's woolen stocking with the large round stone in the
foot of it ...

The penny poet changed from the high grace notes of "The Red-Haired
Man's Wife" to the surge of a come-all-ye. There was the undercurrent of
a pipe drone to his voice:

Fare-you-well, Enniskillen, fare-you-well for a while,
All round the borders of Erin's green isle
And when the war 's over return I shall soon,
And your arms will be o-o-open for your Enniskillen Dragoon.

In the intervals between verses a black-bearded man with blue spectacles
announced solemnly that he was Professor Handley direct from English and
German universities, empowered by the Rosicrucian order to distribute a
remarkable panacea at the nominal sum of sixpence a bottle ...

Forests of cows' horns and drovers' sticks, clamor of frightened cattle,
emphatic slapping of palms. Clouds of dust where the horse fair was
carried on. Stands of fruit and cakes. Stalls of religious ornaments,
prayer-books, and rosary beads ... A shooting gallery ... A three-card
trickster, white and pimpled of face ... A trick-of-the-loop man, with
soap-box and greasy string ... A man who sold a gold watch, a
sovereign, and some silver for the sum of fifteen shillings ... An old
man with the Irish bagpipes, bellows strapped to arm, playing "The Birds
Among the Trees," "The Swallow-tail Coat," "The Green Fields of America"
... small boys regarding him curiously ... later young farmers and girls
would be dancing sets to his piping ... At the end of the street a
ballad-monger declaiming, not singing--his head thrown back, his voice
issuing in a measured chant ... "The Lament for the Earl of Lucan":

Patrick Sarsfield, Ireland's wonder!
Fought in the field like bolts of thunder!
One of Ireland's best commanders!
Now is food for the crows of Flanders!
Och! Ochone!

A knot of older people had gathered around him, white-headed farmers,
bent turf-cutters of the glens, a girl-child with eyes like saucers. A
priest stopped to listen ... The crude English of the ballad faded out,
until there was nothing but disheveled agony ... rhythm ... a wail ...
Somewhere a leaping current of feeling ... There was a w