Which now four summers’ heat hath made to fester,
By time, by absence, or by counsel sound,
I flee the soil where my sweet foe doth rest her.
I sojourn here, where I remain so eased,
By this my flight, of the tormenting blow
As doth the dear on whom the shaft hath seized
By late unbending of the deadly bow;
And since, I have this curse ev’n fatal proved,
That I am born to love, and not be loved.
FEARGHAL ÓG MAC AN BHAIRD
(fl. late 16th/early 17th century)
A Letter of Complaint
Here is a wonder, dear Fr Conry:
I got no respect from people who
should be serving the likes of me.
A wonder of a new, cold kind.
Me to be desolate – isn’t this strange? –
and lowly people who rate as nothing
getting the rich juices of Spain
in honour of sweet Brega’s plains.
The peasant wives of fools and louts
are over there in finery
and us with nothing: well may we think
that there is something wrong with this.
Against the base-born tribes of Ireland
who have lit the spark of envy in me,
Oh! Fr Fiheal from Eanna’s shores,
shine on us your brightest light.
Noblest branch of Tuam city,
reflect how unfitting it is for me
to be remote from noble blood.
Give me some encouragement.
In the west I left my birthright
when I spent my first rich share.
If, Fr Fiheal, you favour me,
it will bode a second fortune.
Your own father would see the outrage,
dear branch from which great riches grew:
my affairs in total ruin
while some pleb’s son is coining it.
King Arthur, the whole earth’s bulwark,
was a power in this life.
Everyone came under his sway
while he ruled the wide world’s plain.
That noblest branch of that other island,
Arthur, would touch neither food nor drink
before he’d hear of some great marvel,
throughout his life as long as he lived.
That leading king of mighty triumphs,
if I’d been around in Arthur’s lifetime,
there’s little doubt I wouldn’t cause him
to go to bed with hunger pangs.
For at the Round Table in his presence
I’d have spoken for my people’s sake
of the wonder of my penury
while ignorant pigs are handling gold.
He could eat indeed once he had heard
how robbers’ offspring are full of glee
and how great the affront to my Gaelic blood
when I’m not accorded a guest’s prestige.
In the court of Louvain of purple hills
I am lodged with people too far east.
It’s a hard state for one of my kind,
and less than justice to my forebears.
The Staff of Tuam has an old affection
for the House from which we come.
If that love is still as fervent
it should be extended to me still.
When Fitheal’s son the maker Flaithri
was the wise archpoet in that place,
there would have been a local’s love
from that shield that stood guard round Loughrea.
That learned star of Uisneach’s nobles,
Connacht’s Primate, faithful lord,
the sage that every poet praised,
heart of Scholars in the western land.
Salmon of Boyle, great fish of Cong,
branch from the orchard of Tara’s Fort,
golden moon that never darkened,
he advanced the cause of the goodly man.
Godlike strain that conquered envy,
crowned prince that defeated greed,
sweet stream flowing down the hillside,
saintly text that will keep its theme.
Descendant of Conn of the Hundred Battles
from high Kildare: Onora’s son of endless fame!
Time-honoured tree at the heart of fertile Ireland,
renewing for ever abundant blaze of welcome!
Bernard O’Donoghue
EOGHAN RUA MAC AN BHAIRD
(c.1570–c.1630)
On Receiving a Letter from Aodh Ó Domhnaill, aetate 7
Precious the letter unbound here
that took my breath on opening it
– God keep away bad news –
it has restored my mind.
Had those Gaels lived, those nobles
I knew at the court of Niall,
they would have started for joy
the instant the letter was opened.
The boy that’s come over the ocean
though not yet the Ó Domhnaill
deserves our fervent love: –
may God protect him forever.
Aodh Ó Domhnaill, my treasure,
still just seven years old!
heir to my king, my dear one,
a scholar wrote when you wrote this.
PC
SÉATHRÚN CÉITINN
(c.1580–c.1650)
Dear Woman, with Your Wiles
Dear woman, with your wiles,
You’d best remove your hand.
Though you burn with love’s fire,
I’m no more an active man.
Look at the grey on my head,
See how my body droops,
Think of my sluggish blood –
What would you have me do?
It’s not desire I lack.
Don’t bend low like that again.
Love will live without the act
Forever, slender one.
Withdraw your lips from mine,
Strong as the inclination is,
Don’t brush against my skin,
It could lead to wantonness.
The intricacy of curls,
Soft eyes clear as dew,
The pale sight of your curves,
Give pleasure to me now.
Bar what the body craves,
And lying with you requires,
I’ll do for our love’s sake,
Dear woman, with your wiles.
Maurice Riordan
How Sweet the Tongue of the Gael
How sweet the tongue of the Gael,
By outside help untainted!
Brightly rings that voice,
A mild mouth’s choicest music.
Though Hebrew may be older
And Latin more rich in learning,
Irish owes to neither
A single sound or loanword.
PC
No Sleep is Mine
No sleep is mine since the news from the plain of Fál.
Sharp, when I think of our true friends’ plight, the pang I feel.
Long they stood, a hedge against the Saxon weeds,
but up through them now, unchecked, the cockle spreads.
Brazen Fódla, shame on you that you close your eyes
to how more fitting it were you suckled Míle’s race.
Not a drop of your smooth breast’s milk remains,
all drained now by a swinish breed of aliens.
Any worthless shower sailing here with the thought
of seizing Cobhthach the Just’s age-old, golden fort
would find our greatest houses all without defence,
like the rich pastures of our lovely-bordered lands.
The race of upstarts teeming over the plain of Lugh
are true-born churls, their pedigrees on show:
Tál’s line broken, reeling, of Eoghan’s not a trace,
and the youth of Bántsrath scattered
overseas.
From Nás’s fearsome chieftains not one display of force,
though they in noisy battle-valour once were fierce,
when their roving bands would tweak the English nose;
none now keeps the law, but not theirs the disgrace.
If the high prince of Áine and Drum Daoile lived,
or those lions of the Máigh never without a gift,
not long in the bend of the Bríde would this mob delay,
not a squealing man of them but we’d send on his way.
If the Craftsman of Stars comes not with help when called
against the vengeful foemen ready and bold,
then better gather and sift the finest of our tribe
and set them safe to wander over Clíona’s tide.
David Wheatley
BRIGHID CHILL DARA
(1589–1682)
Response to Eochaidh Ó hEodhasa’s Poem
Youngster, who crafted the poem,
emerge from the schoolmen’s shade;
the poem that spreads your fame
speaks, though you are tongue-tied.
Those verses that you made,
I’d say, dear chap, don’t win
a poet’s prize for you
– not that I have one to give.
The poem you recited sweetly
– this is no amateur’s verdict –
should earn a hefty reward
for the bard who built it.
Flawless poems are rare
but yours is sheer perfection;
– as green as any novice,
yet a master of implication.
It might have been expected
your poem would be ill-made:
finding it a sure-fire winner
leaves me at a loss for praise.
I swear, dear man, it was you
who spoiled your act in the end,
you should have appeared unschooled
presenting a slipshod attempt.
Mac Con Midhe, Fearghal Óg,
Ó Dálaigh Fionn, lord of poets –
by one such, son of Cú,
was the witty work composed.
Ó hEodhasa, the poets’ teacher
who makes swift quatrains well
– it was he devised the lines
or one of the clan Mac Craith.
Yet whatever man of learning
composed that faultless verse
it would be an act of pillage
if the son of Cú took credit.
I won’t disclose the name
to a soul, you may believe;
whoever it belongs to
would not die for my love.
My surname will not be heard
until yesterday comes again;
my forename, all may know,
is shared by a saint in Heaven.
PC
RICHARD BELLINGS
(c.1598–1677)
The Description of a Tempest
Bound for my country from the Cambrian shore,
I cut the deep; the Mariners implore,
With whistling prayer, the wind grown too mild,
To hasten to beget their sails with child.
The humble Sea, as of our ship afraid,
Pale, breathless, prostrate at our feet, is laid.
The morn, scarce out of bed, did blush to see
Her rude beholders so unmannerly.
She scarce had blushed, when she began to hide
Her rosy cheeks, like to a tender Bride.
To suit Aurora, all the heavens put on
A mournful veil of black, as she had done,
And gave the garments to the Sea they wore,
Wherewith it grows more blue now than before.
This stage being set, the lightnings tapers were,
The drums such thunder as afright each ear.
Upon this summons great King Aeolus,
Attended on by Nothus and Zephirus,
Enters, and where the King his steps doth place,
The waves do swell, trod with so proud a grace.
He was to speak, but opening of his mouth,
The boisterous wind did blow so hard at South,
I could not hear, but as the rest told me,
He spoke the prologue for a tragedy.
Behold huge mountains in the watery main
That lately was a smooth and liquid plain,
O’er which our Sea-drunk Barque doth reeling ride.
She must obey, but knows not to which tide;
For still she ploughs that rugged mutinous place,
All skillful Pilots call the breaking race.
A while ambition bare her up so high,
Her proud discoloured flag doth touch the sky;
But when the winds these waves do bear away,
She hangs in air, and makes a little stay:
But down again from such presumptuous height
She’s headlong borne by her attractive weight
Into the hollow of a gaping grave,
Intomb’d of each side with a stately wave.
Down pour these billows from their height of pride:
Our Barque receives them in at every side,
But when they find no place where to remain,
The scuddle holes do let them out again.
At length, as Castles where no force can find
A conquest, by assault are undermined,
So in our Barque, whose walls no waves could break,
We do discover a most traitorous leak.
To this, though much our hopes do now decline,
We do oppose the Pump, our countermine:
That midway breaks, whereat our Master cries
All hope is past, the Seas must close our eyes;
And to augment death’s hideous show the more,
We in the poop can scarse discerne the prore;
Such ugly mists had overcast the air,
That heaven, I thought, had meant we should despair.
But in the last act of this Tragedy,
Behold, our great God’s all-discerning eye
Caused in an instant these thick mists disband;
The winds are calmed, and we at Skerries land.
Dread ruler of the floods, whose powerful will
Each thing that hath a being must fulfill,
Whose hand marks forth the end of each man’s days
And steers our human ship in unknown ways;
To thee, great guide, the incense I present:
Thou gav’st me time to live, and to repent.
ANONYMOUS
Verse Prophecy about the Irish
Their days a number small shall make,
Another shall their country take;
Their Children Vagabonds shall be,
Walk up and down most wretchedly;
God shall them put to endless shame,
And quite cut off their hateful name.
SIR EDMUND BUTLER
(fl. 1648)
‘Arise, distracted land’
Arise, distracted land, rouse thee and bring
Timely assistance to thy captive king.
Ormond at length prevailed, time only can
Reveal the Judgment of the Prudent man.
Hadst not thou left us first and then again
Found safety in a shallop through the Main,
Ireland had sunk; the people had not fed,
Wanting an apt hand to dispense the bread.
Through thee (the darling of the Nation) fly
Those beamlings from imprisoned Majesty
Which do enlighten us; these do increase
His bounty, and thy merit, in our Peace.
Expend our substance, sacrifice our blood;
By such a comment ’twill be understood.
The Irish Nation while their King’s depressed,
Disclaims in Interest and disdains to rest.
WILLIAM SMITH
(d.1655)
To Ir
eland
Hail sacred Island! whom no Threat nor Art
Could tempt to falter in the passive part:
Now be as active, let no Power nor frown
Yoke thy enfranchised thoughts, or pull them down.
Have not thy Altars, where the spotless price
Of Man’s Redemption, the true Sacrifice
Was Daily offered, lain too long recluse,
Or, being employed, served to a different use?
Thy sumptuous piles, built for Religious vows
Are the secure retreat of daws and doves;
The owls, the bats, the direful birds of night
Have been preserved before the Sons of light.
Amongst all Realms, it was thy special fate
To have thy sons made illegitimate;
On whom nor place nor profit did descend
Whom neither Judge nor Justice did befriend;
But wallowing in the ill-got spoils of thine,
Others laid up, whiles thou didst dig the mine.
This thou has seen and suffered: yet the sense
Of all these Evils, could find a Patience
Until some Head borne round in Giddiness
Of private Spirits durst so far Transgress
As to dismantle England’s crown, and wring
The sap of Honour from so good a King.
Then did the Object of thy sense direct
Thy stupid mind: thou feltst the disrespect
Done unto God by this: thence came the Birth
Of thy fair thoughts: For Kings are Gods on earth.
On, sprightly hearts, you whom the French, the Dutch,
The Pole, the Spaniard, court and love so much.
Let not these blush in your behalf: maintain
That spring of honour, which no war could drain.
He’s thoroughly armed, who to the field can bring
Th’interests of his Faith, country, and King.
PÁDRAIGÍN HAICÉAD
(c.1600–54)
from Dirge on the Death of Éamon Mac Piarais Buitléir, 1640
Stand aside you band of keeners,
you’ve said your fervent verses of bereavement;
leave the tomb of this true leader
to me a while, to recite my grief-song.
It is my right to complete his burial,
it is my right to make known his story;
right for me his career to speak of
since I best know his glorious doings;
The Penguin Book of Irish Poetry Page 23