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The Map and the Clock

Page 11

by Carol Ann Duffy


  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.

 

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