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Our foolish neighbour farther up the hill
Already twice before the Bench, again
Has earned more trouble with his private still
He wore a pad to like a well-trod lane
Running his neck into law’s ready noose,
Who only made poteen for table use.
It had been something if he’d flashed the stuff
At every céilí round the countryside
And from the eager orders cleared enough
To pay his debts or gain a second bride,
But he’d no better wit nor more to do
Than stretch on Sundays full along the brú.
It’s not his misdemeanour that affronts;
We all have careless follies to confess;
Be up before the Petty Sessions once,
And not a man will rate a haet the less:
It’s that we know of smarter men that wrought
At stilling all their days were never caught.
from 'Loose Ends' by John Hewitt (Blackstaff '83)
ISBN 0-85640-284-2 Available from Amazon.com
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Short Stories 
