The Good People

The millway path looks like a wraith, The lock is black as ink, And silently in stream and sky The stars begin to blink.

I see them pass along the grass With slow and solemn tread: Aoibheall, their queen, is in between-- A corpse is at their head!

They wander on with faces wan, And dirges sad as wind. I know not, but it may be that The dead's of human kind.