And pure zedoary its shoots;
Of choicest mace is its flower,
With cinnamon bark of sweet odour.
Its fruit, clove of pleasant flavour,
And bounteous aromatic pepper.
There the reddest roses are
And lilies waving in the air
That never wither day or night,
A wonderfully pleasing sight.
In the abbey are four founts
From which salves and potions mount
And spiced wines and healing balms
Whose constantly replenished streams
Irrigate the earth and mould
With precious stones and shining gold.
There is sapphire and large pearl,
Onyx, topazine and beryl,
Amber, passine and astrion,
Emerald and cut gemstone,
Amethyst and chrysolite,
Chalcedony and hepatite.
There is a bird on every bush,
Throstle, nightingale or thrush,
Golden oriole or lark,
Birds with every kind of mark,
Who never once conserve their might,
But merrily sing all day and night.
I have more to tell you yet:
Geese for roasting on the spit
Fly to that abbey, as God knows,
Crying ‘hot geese’ with honking voice,
Bringing the garlic so they can be
The best dressed geese a man may see.
The larks fly there from the south
To alight in the eater’s mouth
Dressed, as from the stew pot, well
In flour of clove and caramel.
And drinking there is no big deal –
You just top up until you’re full.
When the monks go to Mass
All the windows made of glass
Suddenly into crystal brighten
So the monks may have more lighting.
Then when Mass has been said
And the missals laid aside
The crystal turns back into glass
And everything is as it was.
The young monks every day
After meals go out to play.
There is no bird of the sky
Who can fly half so high
As those monks when in the mood
With their streaming sleeves and hoods.
When the abbot sees them fly
He breaks out in jollity
But still he calls the merry throng
Back to earth for evensong.
The monks, refusing to come down,
Fly on towards the setting sun;
When the abbot sees that they
Are about to fly away
He takes a peasant girl to drum
Expertly on her bare bum.
As soon as they see that sight
Instantly the monks alight
And gather round her and set to
Drumming on her bum with gusto
– Thirstier work than you might think,
So they head home for a drink,
Marching off to their collation
In an organized procession.
Another abbey stands nearby,
A very splendid nunnery,
Up a river of sweet milk,
Where there is a wealth of silk.
When the summer day is hot
The young nuns take out a boat
To make their way up that river
With the aid of oars and rudder.
Once clear of the abbey they
Strip bare naked and start to play,
Leaping headfirst into the brim
To show how skilfully they swim.
The young monks, at first hidden, spying,
And then in close formation flying
Come upon the nuns anon
And each of them chooses one;
He quickly carries off his prey
To the safety of his abbey
Where both join in orison
Of rumpy-pumpy, up and down.
The monk who’d like to be a stud
And knows how to arrange his hood
Shall have, without any fear,
Twelve brand-new wives each year,
All by right and not by grace
For his pleasure and solace.
And to the monk who sleeps the best,
Whose favourite pastime is to rest,
Shall surely fall the happy lot
Of being named father abbot.
Whoever to that land would go
He must mortal penance do,
Wading right up to his ears
In pigs’ shit for seven years.
My lords, may you never leave
This great world before you give
Yourselves a sporting chance
– By undertaking such penance –
Of seeing that enchanted land
And never coming here again.
We pray to God that this may be,
Amen, for Saint Charity.
PC
Hey!
Hey, Saint Michael with the long spear!
How pretty are those wings you wear!
The kirtle you’ve on is as long as it’s red
And you’re the best angel God ever made.
This verse is highly wrought,
Its wisdom widely sought.
Hey, Saint Christopher with the long stake,
Who ferried Baby Jesus over the lake!
Many’s the conger eel swims at your feet.
Say, how much does herring now cost to eat?
This verse is Holy Writ,
Informed by noble wit.
Saint Mary’s bastard, Magdalen’s son,
As a natty dresser you’re widely known.
You carry a herb box of ingenious device;
If you’re so saintly, give us some spice.
This verse is constructed well
Of consonant and vowel.
Hey, Saint Dominic with your long staff!
Its upper end is as bent as a gaffe.
That book on your back, I think it’s a Bible,
And you’re a good cleric, if to pride rather liable.
A true rhyme, God knows,
To keep us from prose.
Hey, Saint Francis, the man for the fowls,
Kites and crows and ravens and owls,
Two dozen wild geese, not to mention the peacock –
And hundreds of beggars to bring up your wake!
This verse is well put,
Without a stray foot.
Hey, friars with the long white copes!
Whose Drogheda house turns out new ropes.
You wander all over the country like tinkers,
Filching from churches the water sprinklers.
The master was exceptionally good
Who this sentence understood.
Hey, hermits with your black gowns!
You abandon the wilderness and fill up the towns.
Beggars without and rich men within,
Your money-grubbing is surely a sin.
Cleverly this verse is said:
It would be useless merely read.
Hey, holy monks who cuddle your jugs,
Early and late tanked up to the lugs!
For ale and wine you get a great urge
Whenever you feel Saint Benedict’s scourge.
Pay heed to me
And my artful ditty.
Hey, nuns of Saint Mary’s house,
Each one God’s handmaid and his spouse!
You misplace your virtue when tying your shoes
So calling the cobbler is your special ruse.
You he understood
Who ensured this poem was good.
Hey, priests with your broad books!
Your crowns are shaved, though curly your locks.
You and your like give alms so meanly
To receive holy bread from you would be unseemly.
Clea
rly it was a clerk
Who made this wily work.
Hey, merchants with your great packs
Of drapery and avoir du poids on your backs,
Precious stones, pounds, marks, gold and silver –
Of which not a groat finds its way to the poor!
Full of wit he was and fly
Who said this in poetry.
Hey, tailors with your sharp shears!
To make ill-fitting hoods you cut arse over ears.
Ready for winter, your needles are hot.
Your seams look good but last hardly a jot.
The clerk who composes verse this deep
Stays up all night and gets no sleep.
Hey, cobblers with your various lasts,
And treated hides of precious beasts,
Leathers waste, leathers worn, your tools and your awls!
Black are your teeth, and filthy your stalls.
Is this verse not well set,
Each word sitting tight?
Hey, skinners with your drenching vat!
That smell would kill a sewer-rat;
During thunder you can shit in it.
Bad luck on your manners, you stink up the street!
He’s worthy to be king
Who wrote this thing.
Hey, butchers with your woodbole cleavers,
Your leather aprons and foxy ear-hairs!
You stand at the block, thick-set and tough,
Flies follow you everywhere – though you swallow enough!
The best clerk in town
With skill wrote this down.
Hey, bakers with your loaves so small
Of white bread and black, go set out your stall
Where you stint with the flour against God’s law –
May you soon at the pillory stand in awe!
There’s no living tongue can tell
How this verse was made so well.
Hey, brewers with your measures,
Gallons and quarts and siphoned-off treasures!
Your thumbs in your pint-pots, shame on your guile –
The cucking stool and lake will reform you in style.
He surely was a clever clerk
Who so slyly wrought this work.
Hey, hucksters down by the lake,
With candles and bowls and pots of black,
Tripes and cows’ feet and sheeps’ heads!
With rotten liver may you make your beds.
He is sorry all his life
Who is stuck with such a wife.
Fie upon devils, caitiffs who card wool,
The gallows’ shameful shadow hangs over your skull!
You raised such a racket outside our homes
That I made one of you sit on a comb.
He was a noble clerk and good
Who this deep lore understood.
Make glad my friends, you sit too still,
Speak now, be happy, drink your fill!
You’ve heard of men’s lives as lived in this land;
Drink deep and be glad, and all will be grand.
This song has been said by me.
Always blessed may you be.
PC
Christ on the Cross
Look at your Lord, churl, hanging from the rood
And weep, if you can, tears of real blood.
Look at his head, with spiked thorns crowned,
And his skin besmirched by the sharp spear’s wound.
Look! His stripped breast, his bloody side,
His stiffening arms forced open so wide.
His fair cheek palls, his sight fails,
As if tightened on a rack his good body quails.
See how sag there, cold and heavy as stone,
Loins that have lusted after no one.
Look at the nails in his hands and his feet,
And his red blood, streaming precious and sweet.
Cast your gaze from his head to his toe
In one long sweep of anguish and woe.
Turn your dear lover this way and that:
Everything you see is pitiful to look at.
CHRIST SPEAKS
Love, for you my breast shines naked and glistening.
My side sorely stung, my hands ripped and bleeding.
Man, you have brought yourself nearly to Hell.
Turn round, come with me, I will make you well.
First I created and then I forgave you,
Hanging from a tree so I could save you.
Look what I went through up on that tree!
Who ever suffered such pain?
Hear me, who died for you, now cry to you,
Nailed hand and foot for your gain.
Sharp stabs, hard blows, sore wounds,
And the worst pangs of all in my mind:
Such a bitter drink!
Now what thanks
For the love that I gave do I find?
PC
Age
Age gelds
and greys me;
when age tries
to cut me
down to size
there is never a No,
though age ever
says Nay
to chatter of May;
when age
wages
war on me
well-being’s away;
age loves to cool,
to cling to clay;
must deal with age
to dying day.
Though age blows brave
his bloom soon pales;
if all want growth
unabated
why
is age hated?
Things annoy:
spittle dries
nose runs;
age warps body,
shoulders spindle;
youth dwindles.
I can no more
grope under skirt
though my will, he wants to;
I am yoked to yore,
sin my sole lore,
my sun, set.
So beset with sin
I may not win
to good topic with tongue;
age has me marred,
my soul charred
by longing to be young.
Thus age fore-does me,
tugs out my teeth;
no more loving can I do
but piss on my shoe;
every woman
now a shrew.
My head all hoar,
grey like a mare;
body waxes weak
and eyes dim
to see my shins
so thin;
friends grow rare.
I prattle,
I puff and pout,
shrivel, sob
and snuffle my snout;
I crumble,
grow cold and grumble,
I lean and get lean,
in limb become less;
I pall:
saddle-gelded,
galled
and witless.
I ravel,
wrinkle and rave;
mind roves;
I cling,
croak and cough;
I grow crippled;
I grunt,
groan and girn;
I grouch;
I sneeze,
snap, sniffle
and rage:
all
at behest
of age.
I stint,
stammer and stumble;
bleared,
I go blind;
in bed I snore
ever more;
I spit
and spurn;
I wither
and wane;
I weep that
youth comes
never again.
Spent
is strength;
am feeble
as field that lies fallow,
that once herdsman had
but has since
hollowed.
No one now
follows.
Age
has so hard
taken hold;
look how
he wastes
me, each
twisted tooth
torn out
by the root;
tongue wriggles,
I retch;
listless
in limb,
where age is
I am:
under
his foot.
PC
GEARÓID IARLA MAC GEARAILT
(1338–98)
Dispraise of Women
Shame, who overleaps his steed,
Rightly rede and understand;
Love with land goes swift behind,
Weigh the worth of Womankind.
Them may malisons enfold,
Though of old we used to mix,
Youth, their tricks are as the wind –
Ware the wiles of Womankind.
He who early looks abroad
Shall a load of ills discern,
Wouldst thou learn the worst to find,
Watch the heart of Womankind.
Married man with witless wife,
Fails in strife with foreign foe;
Bad for hart is belling hind,
Worse the tongue of Womankind.
Dame who hears but does not heed –
Walled indeed her ears with wax,
See her tax her spouse too blind,
Wont to rouse is Womankind.
Show a stranger, – off she trips,
Wreathes her lips with smiles resigned,
Him beguiles with martyred air –
False as fair is Womankind.
Wedded wife from altar rail,
Pious-pale before the priest,
After feast shows bitter rind –
Best beware of Womankind.
Best beware of Womankind,
Meetly mind, this truth proclaim:
He who fails full soon shall find
Bondage blind and bitter shame.
George Sigerson
Praise of Women
Woe to him who slanders women.
Scorning them is no right thing.
All the blame they’ve ever had
is undeserved, of that I’m sure.
Sweet their speech and neat their voices.
They are a sort I dearly love.
Woe to the reckless who revile them.
Woe to him who slanders women.
Treason, killing, they won’t commit
nor any loathsome, hateful thing.
Church or bell they won’t profane.
Woe to him who slanders women.
But for women we would have,
for certain, neither kings nor prelates,
prophets mighty, free from fault.
Woe to him who slanders women.
They are the victims of their hearts.
They love a sound and slender man
– not soon do they dislike the same.
Woe to him who slanders women.
Ancient persons, stout and grey,
they will not choose for company,
The Penguin Book of Irish Poetry Page 18