Flowers flourished in the frith . where she forth stepped,
And the grass, that was grey . greened belive.
ANON
Brothers
You who opt for English ways
And crop your curls, your crowning glory,
You, my handsome specimen,
Are no true son of Donncha’s.
If you were, you would not switch
To modes in favour with the English;
You, the flower of Fódla’s land,
Would never end up barbered.
A full head of long, fair hair
Is not for you; it is your brother
Who scorns the foreigners’ close cut.
The pair of you are opposites.
Eoghan Bán won’t ape their ways,
Eoghan beloved of noble ladies
Is enemy to English fads
And lives beyond the pale of fashion.
Eoghan Bán is not like you.
Breeches aren’t a thing he values.
A clout will do him for a cloak.
Leggings he won’t wear, nor greatcoat.
He hates the thought of jewelled spurs
Flashing on his feet and footwear,
And stockings of the English sort,
And being all prinked up and whiskered.
He’s Donncha’s true son, for sure.
He won’t be seen with a rapier
Angled like an awl, out arseways,
As he swanks it to the meeting place.
Sashes worked with threads of gold
And high stiff collars out of Holland
Are not for him, nor satin scarves
That sweep the ground, nor gold rings even.
He has no conceit in feather beds,
Would rather stretch himself on rushes,
Dwell in a bothy than a bawn,
And make the branch his battlement.
Horsemen in the mouth of a glen,
A savage dash, kernes skirmishing –
This man is in his element
Taking on the foreigner.
But you are not like Eoghan Bán.
You’re a laughing stock on stepping stones
With your dainty foot: a sad disgrace,
You who opt for English ways.
LAOISEACH MAC AN BHAIRD
translated by Seamus Heaney
The Twa Corbies
As I was walking all alane
I heard twa corbies making a mane;
The tane unto the t’other say,
‘Where sall we gang and dine to-day?’
‘– In behint yon auld fail dyke,
I wot there lies a new-slain knight;
And naebody kens that he lies there.
But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.
‘His hound is to the hunting gane,
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame.
His lady’s ta’en another mate,
So we may mak our dinner sweet.
‘Ye’ll sit on his white hause-bane,
And I’ll pick out his bonnie blue een;
Wi’ ae lock o’ his gowden hair
We’ll theek our nest when it grows bare.
‘Mony a one for him makes mane,
But nane sall ken where he is gane;
O’er his white banes, when they are bare,
The wind sall blaw for evermair.’
ANON
Marriage of the Dwarfs
Design or Chance makes others wive.
But Nature did this match contrive:
Eve might as well have Adam fled,
As she denied her little bed
To him, for whom Heaven seem’d to frame
And measure out this only dame.
Thrice happy is that humble pair,
Beneath the level of all care!
Over whose heads those arrows fly
Of sad distrust and jealousy;
Secured in as high extreme,
As if the world held none but them.
To him the fairest nymphs do show
Like moving mountains top’d with snow;
And every man a Polypheme
Does to his Galatea seem:
None may presume her faith to prove;
He proffers death that proffers love.
Ah, Chloris! that kind Nature thus
From all the world had sever’d us;
Creating for ourselves us two,
As Love has me for only you!
EDMUND WALLER
from Paradise Lost
Sweet is the breath of Morn; her rising sweet,
With charm of earliest birds: pleasant the sun,
When first on this delightful land he spreads
His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,
Glistering with dew; fragrant the fertile earth
After soft showers; and sweet the coming on
Of grateful Evening mild; then silent Night,
With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon,
And these the gems of Heaven, her starry train:
But neither breath of Morn when she ascends
With charm of earliest birds; nor rising sun
On this delightful land; nor herb, fruit, flower,
Glistering with dew; nor fragrance after showers;
Nor grateful Evening mild; nor silent Night,
With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon,
Or glittering star-light, without thee is sweet.
JOHN MILTON
Maggie Lauder
Wha wadna be in love
Wi’ bonnie Maggie Lauder?
A piper met her gaun to Fife
And spier’d what was’t they ca’d her
Richt scornfully she answered him.
Begone, you hallanshaker!
Jog on your gate, you bladderskate!
My name is Maggie Lauder.
Maggie! quoth he; and by my bags,
I’m fidgin’ fain to see thee!
Sit doun by me, my bonnie bird;
In troth I winna steer thee;
For I’m a piper to my trade;
My name is Rob the Ranter;
The lasses loup as they were daft,
When I blaw up my chanter.
Piper, quo Meg, hae ye your bags,
Or is your drone in order?
If ye be Rob, I’ve heard o’ you;
Live you upo’ the Border?
The lasses a’, baith far and near,
Have heard o’ Rob the Ranter;
I’ll shake my foot wi’ richt gude will,
Gif ye’ll blaw up your chanter.
Then to his bags he flew wi’ speed:
About the drone he twisted:
Meg up and wallop’d ower the green;
For brawly could she frisk it!
Weel done! quo he. Play up! quo she.
Weel bobb’d! quo Rob the Ranter;
It’s worth my while to play, indeed,
When I hae sic a dancer!
Weel hae ye play’d your part! quo Meg;
Your cheeks are like the crimson!
There’s nane in Scotland plays sae weel,
Sin’ we lost Habbie Simson.
I’ve lived in Fife, baith maid and wife,
This ten years and a quarter:
Gin ye should come to Anster Fair,
Spier ye for Maggie Lauder.
FRANCIS SEMPILL
Blue Song
made by Mary, daughter of Red Alasdair,
soon after she was left in Scarba
Hóireann o
Hoireann o
I am sad
since a week ago
Left on this island,
no grass, no shelter
If I could
I’d get back home,
Making the journey
rightaway
To Ullinish
of white-hoofed cattle
Where I grew up,
a little girl
Breast-fed there
>
by soft palmed women
In the house of brown-haired Flora
Lachlan’s daughter
Milkmaid
among the cows
of Roderick Mor
MacLeod of th e banners,
I have been happy
in his great house,
living it up
on the dancefloor,
fiddle music
making me sleepy,
pibroch
my dawn chorus
Hóireann ó ho bhì ó.
Ro hóireann ó o hao o
Say hullo for me
to Dunvegan
MARY MACLEOD
transated by Robert Crawford
To His Coy Mistress
Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime.
We would sit down, and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love’s day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side
Should’st rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood:
And you should if you please refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow.
A hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze.
Two hundred to adore each breast:
But thirty thousand to the rest.
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, Lady, you deserve this state;
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time’s winged chariot hurrying near:
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found;
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity:
And your quaint honour turn to dust;
And into ashes all my lust.
The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none I think do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball:
And tear our pleasures with rough strife,
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
ANDREW MARVELL
The Mower to the Glow-Worms
Ye living lamps, by whose dear light
The nightingale does sit so l ate,
And studying all the summer night,
Her matchless songs does meditate;
Ye country comets, that portend
No war, nor prince’s funeral,
Shining unto no higher end
Then to presage the grass’s fall;
Ye glow-worms, whose officious flame
To wandering mowers shows the way,
That in the night have lost their aim,
And after foolish fires do stray;
Your courteous lights in vain you waste,
Since Juliana here is come,
For she my mind hath so displaced
That I shall never find my home.
ANDREW MARVELL
To my Daughter Catherine on Ashwednesday 1645, finding her weeping at prayers, because I would not consent to her fasting
My dearest, you may pray now it is Lent,
But ought not fast: nor have you to repent,
Since then in all you’ve thought, or said or done,
No motes appear though sifted by the sun.
Lent made for penance, then to you may be,
Since you are innocent, a jubily.
If not for others then, why don’t you spare
Those tears which for yourself prophaned are.
Hymns of thanksgiving and of joy befit
Such a triumphant virtue, and for it
Not to rejoice, were as preposterous ill,
As in your vices to be merry still.
But if you reply, ’Tis fit you sigh and grone,
Since you have made my miseries your own;
You feel my faults as yours, so them lament,
And expiate those sins I should repent.
O cease this sorrow doubly now my due,
First for my self, but more for love of you.
I’ll undertake what justice can exact
By any penance, if you will retract
Those sorrows you usurp, which do procure
A pain I only cannot well endure.
KATHERINE ASTON
‘I saw eternity the other night’
I saw eternity the other night
Like a great ring of pure and endless light,
All calm, as it was bright;
And round beneath it, time in hours, days, years,
Driven by the spheres
Like a vast shadow moved, in. which the world
And all her train were hurled.
HENRY VAUGHAN
Son-days
I
Bright shadows of true rest! some shoots of bliss,
Heaven once a week;
The next world’s gladness prepossessed in this;
A day to seek
Eternity in time; the steps by which
We climb above all ages; lamps that light
Man through his heap of dark days; and the rich,
And full redemption of the whole week’s flight.
II
The pulleys unto headlong man; time’s bower;
The narrow way;
Transplanted Paradise; God’s walking hour;
The cool o’the day;
The creatures’ Jubilee; God’s parle with dust;
Heaven here; man on those hills of myrrh, and flowers;
Angels descending; the returns of trust;
A gleam of glory, after six-days-showers.
III
The Church’s love-feasts; time’s prerogative,
And interest
Deducted from the whole; the combs, and hive,
And home of rest.
The milky way chalked out with suns; a clue
That guides through erring hours; and in full story
A taste of Heaven on earth; the pledge, and cue
Of a full feast; and the out courts of glory.
HENRY VAUGHAN
The Waterfall
With what deep murmurs through time’s silent stealth
Doth thy transparent, cool, and watery wealth
Here flowing fall,
And chide and call,
As if his liquid loose retinue stayed
Lingering, and were of this steep place afraid,
The common pass
Where, clear as glass,
All must descend
Not to an end;
But quickened by this deep and rocky grave,
Rise to a longer course more bright and brave.
Dear stream! dear bank, where often I
Have sat, and pleased my pensive eye,
Why, since each drop of thy quick store
Runs thither, whence it flowed before,
Should poor souls fear a shade or night,
Who came, sure, from a sea of light?
Or since those drops are all sent back
So sure to thee, that none doth lack,
Why should trail flesh doubt any more
That what
God takes, he’ll not restore?
O useful Element and clear!
My sacred wash and cleanser here,
My first consigner unto those
Fountains of life, where the Lamb goes,
What sublime truths, and wholesome themes
Lodge in thy mystical, deep streams!
Such as dull man can never find,
Unless that Spirit lead his mind,
Which first upon thy face did move,
And hatched all with his quickening love.
As this loud brook’s incessant fall
In streaming rings restagnates all,
Which reach by course the bank, and then
Are no more seen, just so pass men.
O my invisible estate,
My glorious liberty, still late!
Thou art the channel my soul seeks,
Not this with cataracts and creeks.
HENRY VAUGHAN
Friends Departed
They are all gone into the world of light!
And I alone sit ling’ring here;
Their very memory is fair and bright,
And my sad thoughts doth clear.
It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,
Like stars upon some gloomy grove,
Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest
After the sun’s remove.
I see them walking in an air of glory,
Whose light doth trample on my days:
My days, which are at best but dull and hoary.
Mere glimmerings and decays.
The Map and the Clock Page 11