"The wailing of an abandoned race," he
said. "This is the soul-sickness from which we are fleeing." And
he wandered about calling to the shepherd, and the shepherd
answered, but the mist was so thick in the hollows that neither
could find the other. After a little while the shepherd began to
play his flageolet again; and Ned listened to it, singing it after
him, and he walked home quickly, and the moment he entered the
drawing-room he said to Ellen, "Don't speak to me; I am going to
write something down," and this is what he wrote:--
THE WILD GOOSE.
[musical excerpt]
"A mist came on suddenly, and I heard a shepherd playing this
folk-tune. Listen to it. Is it not like the people? Is it not like
Ireland? Is it not like everything that has happened? It is
melancholy enough in this room, but no words can describe its
melancholy on a flageolet played by a shepherd in the mist. It is
the song of the exile; it is the cry of one driven out in the
night--into a night of wind and rain. It is night, and the exile
on the edge of the waste. It is like the wind sighing over bog
water. It is a prophetic echo and final despair of a people who
knew they were done for from the beginning. A mere folk-tune, mere
nature, raw and unintellectual; and these raw folk-tunes are all
that we shall have done: and by these and these alone, shall we be
remembered."
"Ned," she said at last, "I think you had better go away. I can
see you're wearing out your heart here."
"Why do you think I should go? What put that idea into your head?"
"I can see you are not happy.
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