“A city built upon mud;A culture built upon profit;Free speech nipped in the bud,The minority always guilty.Why should I want to go backTo you, Ireland, my Ireland?...Her mountains are still blue, her rivers flowBubbling over the boulders.She is both a bore and a bitch;Better close the horizon,Send her no more fantasy, no more longings whichAre under a fatal tariff.For common sense is the vogueAnd she gives her children neither sense nor moneyWho slouch around the world with a gesture and a brogueAnd a faggot of useless memories.”

“September has come, it is hersWhose vitality leaps in the autumn,Whose nature prefersTrees without leaves and a fire in the fireplace.So I give her this month and the nextThough the whole of my year should be hers who has rendered alreadySo many of its days intolerable or perplexedBut so many more so happy.Who has left a scent on my life, and left my wallsDancing over and over with her shadowWhose hair is twined in all my waterfallsAnd all of London littered with remembered kisses.”

“Bagpipe Music'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.John MacDonald found a corpse, put it under the sofa,Waited till it came to life and hit it with a poker,Sold its eyes for souvenirs, sold its blood for whiskey,Kept its bones for dumb-bells to use when he was fifty.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.Annie MacDougall went to milk, caught her foot in the heather,Woke to hear a dance record playing of Old Vienna.It's no go your maidenheads, it's no go your culture,All we want is a Dunlop tyre and the devil mend the puncture.The Laird o' Phelps spent Hogmanay declaring he was sober,Counted his feet to prove the fact and found he had one foot over.Mrs Carmichael had her fifth, looked at the job with repulsion,Said to the midwife 'Take it away; I'm through with overproduction'.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.Willie Murray cut his thumb, couldn't count the damage,Took the hide of an Ayrshire cow and used it for a bandage.His brother caught three hundred cran when the seas were lavish,Threw the bleeders back in the sea and went upon the parish.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.It's no go the picture palace, it's no go the stadium,It's no go the country cot with a pot of pink geraniums,It's no go the Government grants, it's no go the elections,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.”

“Let the old Muse loosen her staysOr give me a new Muse with stockings and suspendersAnd a smile like a cat,With false eyelashes and finger-nails of carmineAnd dressed by Schiaparelli, with a pill-box hat....Give me a houri but houris are too easy,Give me a nun;We'll rape the angels off the golden reredosBefore we're done.”

“Cradle Song for Eleanor”: Sleep, my darling, sleep; The pity of it all Is all we compass if We watch disaster fall. Put off your twenty-odd Encumbered years and creep Into the only heaven, The robbers’ cave of sleep. The wild grass will whisper, Lights of passing cars Will streak across your dreams And fumble at the stars; Life will tap the window Only too soon again, Life will have her answer – Do not ask her when. When the winsome bubble Shivers, when the bough Breaks, will be the moment But not here or now. Sleep and, asleep, forget The watchers on the wall Awake all night who know The pity of it all.”

“World is crazier and more of it than we think,Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portionA tangerine and spit the pips and feelThe drunkenness of things being various.”

“The Sunlight on the GardenThe sunlight on the gardenHardens and grows cold,We cannot cage the minuteWithin its nets of gold,When all is toldWe cannot beg for pardon.Our freedom as free lancesAdvances towards its end;The earth compels, upon itSonnets and birds descend;And soon, my friend,We shall have no time for dances.The sky was good for flyingDefying the church bellsAnd every evil ironSiren and what it tells:The earth compels,We are dying, Egypt, dyingAnd not expecting pardon,Hardened in heart anew,But glad to have sat underThunder and rain with you,And grateful tooFor sunlight on the garden.”