English poem
First Merchant
by W. B. Yeats
Our faces go unscratched, Wring the neck o' that fowl, scatter the flour And look if there is bread upon the shelves. We'll turn the fowl upon the spit and roast it, And eat the supper we were bidden to, Now that the house is quiet, praise our Master, And stretch and warm our heels among the ashes.
END OF SCENE I.