To Garryowen Upon An Organ Ground Two 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 Night Is Full Of Stinks And Cries; A Naphtha-Light Flares From A Barrow; Battered And Obtused With Vices, Wrinkles, Life And Work And Rags, Each With Her Inch Of Clay, Two Loitering Hags Look On Dispassionate - Critical - Something 'Mused. *** The Gods Are Dead? Perhaps They Are! Who Knows? Living At Least In Lempriere Undeleted, The Wise, The Fair, The Awful, The Jocose, Are One And All, I Like To Think, Retreated In Some Still Land Of Lilacs And The Rose. Once High They Sat, And High O'Er Earthly Shows With Sacrificial Dance And Song Were Greeted. Once . . . Long Ago. But Now, The Story Goes, The Gods Are Dead. It Must Be True. The World, A World Of Prose, Full-Crammed With Facts, In Science Swathed And Sheeted, Nods In A Stertorous After-Dinner Doze! Plangent And Sad, In Every Wind That Blows Who Will May Hear The Sorry Words Repeated:- 'The Gods Are Dead!'