%ISOlat1; %ISOlat2; %ISOnum; %ISOpub; %ISOdia; ]> Running to Paradise An electronic edition William Butler Yeats Electronic edition compiled and proof-read by Beatrix Färber Juliette Maffet School of History, University College, Cork First draft. 615 CELT: Corpus of Electronic Texts: a project of University College, Cork
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2012 CELT online at University College, Cork, Ireland. E910001-015

The works by W. B. Yeats are in the public domain. This electronic text is available with prior consent of the CELT programme for purposes of private or academic research and teaching.

 Bibliography A bibliography is available online at the official web site of the Nobel Prize. See: http://nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/1923/yeats-bibl.html The edition used in the digital edition William Butler Yeats Running to Paradise William Butler Yeats Responsibilities and other Poems The Macmillan Company New York 1916 49–50

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The electronic text represents the edited text. Lines (or parts of them) reproduced in italics in the printed edition are tagged hi rend="ital".

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 By William Butler Yeats (1865–1939). before 1916 The poem is in English. 2012-02-10 Beatrix Färber ed. File proofed (2), additions to encoding made; header completed; file parsed; SGML and HTML files created. 2012-02-01 Juliette Maffet ed. Header created. 2012-01-23 Juliette Maffet ed. First proofing. 2012-01-18 Juliette Maffet file capture Text captured by scanning. Running to Paradise As I came over Windy Gap They threw a halfpenny into my cap, For I am running to Paradise; And all that I need do is to wish And somebody puts his hand in the dish To throw me a bit of salted fish: And there the king is but as the beggar. My brother Mourteen is worn out With skelping his big brawling lout, And I am running to Paradise; A poor life do what he can, And though he keep a dog and a gun, A serving maid and a serving man: And there the king is but as the beggar. Poor men have grown to be rich men, And rich men grown to be poor again, And I am running to Paradise; And many a darling wit's grown dull That tossed a bare heel when at school, Now it has filled an old sock full: And there the king is but as the beggar. The wind is old and still at play While I must hurry upon my way, For I am running to Paradise; Yet never have I lit on a friend To take my fancy like the wind That nobody can buy or bind: And there the king is but as the beggar.