“Sighing stones, ghosts and bones,
and who will dig a grave
for roaring Tom, that bloody man
who with a pistol gave
death to seven people?
The gravediggers have fled.
So let the lightning bury him,”
the deathwatch bettle said.
“Even the wicked need a grave
and it’s a dreadful thing
for any man to make his bed
under the vulture’s wing.
Give me the spade and pickax.
A murderer who’s dead
can do no harm to anyone,”
Biddy Early said.
She sank her spade into the sod—
the stones began to weep.
“The little mice,” said Biddy,
“are singing in their sleep.”
She sank her spade into the roots—
their cry turned her to ice.
The deathwatch beetle snickered,
“An owl has caught the mice.”
Six feet down in darkness
she heard the shovel chime
against an old blue bottle
glittering under grime.
With sleeve and spit she polished it
and heard the bottle call,
“Of all things born at midnight
I am most magical.
“Nothing known shall come to pass,
no secret word or wish,
that I have not reflected.
Bird, beast, or fish,
every living thing shall praise
the healing in your hand,
Biddy, the bravest woman
in all of Ireland.”