The Penguin Book of Irish Poetry

by Patrick Crotty (ed)

through cold towns crying today.

  Michael Hartnett

  He Curses the Wave at the Western Ocean’s Edge

  Drearily the drenching night drags; without sleeping or snoring,

  Without wealth, without sheep flocks, without fine-horned herds;

  The waves’ onslaught here beside me through my head keeps gnawing –

  And it’s not on winkles, no, nor dogfish that I was reared.

  If the shelter-giving king from Laune’s banks had lived on,

  Ever ready with his war bands to take pity on my want,

  Who ruled a warm-sloped region rich in harbours, woods and lawns,

  It’s not destitute in Duibhne’s land I’d now find my people fawning.

  Great MacCarthy, fierce and valorous, to whom all wiles were hateful,

  And MacCarthy of the Lee, brought to slavery and lamed,

  MacCarthy, Kanturk’s king, in the grave beside his children –

  It tears my heart not one of them has left a living name.

  My heart it shrivelled up, it curdled all fine feeling,

  To see chiefs who never stinted, whose territories once spanned

  From Cashel to Tonn Chlíodhna and way on out to Thomond,

  Destroyed by Strangers crowding every barony and townland.

  Wave below me here, raising high your roaring,

  Splitting my head in two with your never-ending shout,

  If help just once more could arrive for lovely Ireland

  I’d shove your raucous bile straight back down your throat.

  PC

  THOMAS PARNELL

  (1679–1718)

  Song

  When thy Beauty appears

  In its Graces and Airs

  All bright as an Angel new dropped from the Sky,

  At distance I gaze, and am awed by my Fears:

  So strangely you dazzle my Eye!

  But when without Art

  Your kind Thoughts you impart,

  When your Love runs in Blushes through every Vein;

  When it darts from your Eyes, when it pants in your Heart,

  Then I know you’re a Woman again.

  There’s a Passion and Pride

  In our Sex (she replied),

  And thus (might I gratify both) I would do:

  Still an Angel appear to each Lover beside,

  But still be a Woman to you.

  A Night-Piece on Death

  By the blue Taper’s trembling light,

  No more I waste the wakeful Night,

  Intent with endless view to pore

  The Schoolmen and the Sages o’er:

  Their books from wisdom widely stray,

  Or point at best the longest Way.

  I’ll seek a readier Path, and go

  Where Wisdom’s surely taught below.

  How deep yon Azure dyes the Sky!

  Where Orbs of Gold unnumbered lie,

  While through their Ranks in silver pride

  The nether Crescent seems to glide!

  The slumb’ring Breeze forgets to breathe,

  The Lake is smooth and clear beneath,

  Where once again the spangled

  Show Descends to meet our Eyes below.

  The Grounds which on the right aspire,

  In dimness from the View retire:

  The left presents a Place of Graves,

  Whose Wall the silent Water laves.

  That Steeple guides thy doubtful sight

  Among the livid gleams of Night.

  There pass with melancholy State,

  By all the solemn Heaps of Fate,

  And think, as softly-sad you tread

  Above the venerable Dead,

  Time was, like thee they Life possessed,

  And Time shall be, that thou shalt Rest.

  Those Graves, with bending Osier bound,

  That nameless heave the crumbled Ground,

  Quick to the glancing Thought disclose,

  Where Toil and Poverty repose.

  The flat smooth Stones that bear a Name,

  The Chisel’s slender help to Fame,

  (Which ere our Set of Friends decay

  Their frequent Steps may wear away,)

  A middle Race of Mortals own,

  Men, half ambitious, all unknown.

  The Marble Tombs that rise on high,

  Whose Dead in vaulted Arches lie,

  Whose Pillars swell with sculptured Stones,

  Arms, Angels, Epitaphs, and Bones,

  These (all the poor Remains of State)

  Adorn the Rich, or praise the Great;

  Who, while on Earth in Fame they live,

  Are senseless of the Fame they give.

  Ha! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades,

  The bursting Earth unveils the Shades!

  All slow, and wan, and wrapped with Shrouds

  They rise in visionary Crowds,

  And all with sober Accent cry,

  Think, mortal, what it is to die.

  Now from yon black and fun’ral Yew,

  That bathes the Charnel House with Dew,

  Methinks I hear a Voice begin;

  (Ye Ravens, cease your croaking Din;

  Ye tolling Clocks, no Time resound

  O’er the long Lake and midnight Ground)

  It sends a Peal of hollow Groans

  Thus speaking from among the Bones.

  When men my Scythe and Darts supply,

  How great a King of Fears am I!

  They view me like the last of Things:

  They make, and then they dread, my Stings.

  Fools! if you less provoked your Fears,

  No more my Spectre Form appears.

  Death’s but a Path that must be trod,

  If Man would ever pass to God;

  A Port of Calms, a State of Ease

  From the rough Rage of swelling Seas.

  Why then thy flowing sable Stoles,

  Deep pendent Cypress, mourning Poles,

  Loose Scarfs to fall athwart thy Weeds,

  Long Palls, drawn Hearses, covered Steeds,

  And plumes of black, that, as they tread,

  Nod o’er the ’Scutcheons of the Dead?

  Nor can the parted Body know,

  Nor wants the Soul, these Forms of Woe.

  As men who long in Prison dwell,

  With Lamps that glimmer round the Cell,

  Whene’er their suff’ring Years are run,

  Spring forth to greet the glitt’ring Sun:

  Such Joy though for transcending Sense,

  Have pious Souls at parting hence.

  On Earth, and in the Body placed,

  A few, and evil Years they waste;

  But when their Chains are cast aside,

  See the glad Scene unfolding wide,

  Clap the glad Wing, and tower away,

  And mingle with the Blaze of Day.

  LAURENCE WHYTE

  (c.1683–c.1753)

  A Dissertation on Italian and Irish Musick, with some Panegyrick on Carrallan Our Late Irish Orpheus

  A PRELUDE, OR VOLUNTARY

  Begin my Muse, with tuneful Stanzas

  Concertos, or Extravaganzas,

  With something new not sung before,

  That shall demand a loud Encore!

  Overture, Symphony, or Solo,

  Goes down with universal Volo;

  Some brisk Alegros, Fuges, and Jiggs

  Will please young Ladies, and young Priggs,

  Your Echos may be soft or loud,

  With Gavots to amuse the Crowd;

  Courants and Minutes French, and Spanish,

  That may our Cares and Sorrows banish.

  Play Voluntaries smooth and free,

  From E in alt to double B,

  Spin out your Thoughts on ev’ry Strain,

  Da Capo, then begin again,

  Then some Adagios – with your Leave,

  To please the sober and the grave;

  Some dying Notes, soft and complai
ning,

  Notes full of Energy and Meaning,

  Which all the Passions strangely move,

  To Joy, or Grief, to Mirth, or Love.

  Sounds elevate the Soul to Prayers,

  They mitigate our Toils, and Cares,

  Rouse and excite us all to Arms,

  Allay our Fury by their Charms,

  Compose the Mind, lull us to sleep,

  And mollify or make us weep.

  ADAGIO

  Corelly’s, or Vivaldi’s Style,

  Shall from Corinna force a Smile,

  Which does her Aspect more adorn,

  Than all her Cruelty and Scorn,

  Thus while you hold her by the Ear,

  She catches others in her Snare:

  The longer she is kept in Tune,

  The more her Charms have Power to ruin.

  Then Hendal’s Notes shall make her thrill,

  When Raffa warbles them with Skill,

  And if Dubourg but touch the String,

  To hear him play, and Raffa sing,

  In Ecstasies – she sounds away,

  Revives again to hear him play.

  JIGG

  The Beaus who watch Corinna’s Eyes,

  Encore! and clap them to the Skies,

  The Country Squire dressed like a Hero,

  Who’d rather hear Lill’bolero,

  And having neither Air nor Voice,

  Of Bobbin Joan would make his Choice,

  Now joins in Chorus with the rest,

  And cries Encore! to crown the Jest,

  Then out of time he gives a Clap!

  Huzzas! and then throws up his Cap!

  Cries damn you! play up the Black Joke,

  Or else you’ll get your Fiddles broke,

  Then play Jack Lattin my dear Honey!

  Hey! Larry Grogan for my Money!

  Then rushes out with seeming Haste,

  And leaves that Sample of his Taste.

  RECITATIVO

  Some Solo’s Songs, and merry Lays,

  These are which will for ever please,

  When well performed or sung with Art,

  With graces proper for each Part.

  Some old ones we have oft revived,

  For modern Opera’s contrived,

  Instead of those Italian Airs,

  So much in Vogue for many Years; Poor Ireland,

  like old England doats On Multiplicity of Notes,

  And with few Words she can dispense,

  Sometimes with little or no Sense,

  And those spun out so very long,

  A Word or two would make a Song,

  Through various Bars they rise and fall;

  They might as well have none at all;

  But to begin with ha, ha, ha,

  And to conclude with fa, la, la,

  The Words are vanished quite away,

  Whilst they in such Meanders stray,

  Or swelled so high, so long and loud,

  They burst like Thunder from a Cloud,

  That from Olympus down is cast,

  And at the Bottom breathe their last.

  A Word’s sufficient to the wise,

  But Words exotic bear the Prize,

  Whatever has a Foreign Tone,

  We like much better than our own,

  ’Tis often said, few Words are best,

  To trace their meaning is a Jest,

  And such as cannot well be scanned,

  What need have we to understand.

  ’Tis well the Vulgar now of late,

  Can relish Sounds articulate,

  There’s scarce a Forthman or Fingallion,

  But sings or whistles in Italian,

  Instead of good old Barley Mow,

  With Tamo tanto drive the Plough,

  They o’er their Cups can sing, Si caro,

  And dare profane it at the Harrow,

  There’s Ariadne crossed the Shannon,

  She sings in Gallaway, Tuam, and Mannin,

  And in her Progress to and fro,

  Expels a sweeter Song, Speak Shoy,

  She travels down to Portaferry,

  To Omy and to Londonderry,

  Where People hears her with more Pleasure,

  Than highland Lilt, or Scottish Measure,

  She, of the Truagh, has taken place,

  And Meu Vin Yall, of Irish Race.

  She flies to Munster for the Air,

  To clear her pipes and warble there,

  Poor Cronaan, being turned out of Play,

  With Rinke Mueenagh flew away,

  To the remotest part of Kerry,

  In hopes to make the Vulgar merry,

  But scarce one Cabbin in their Flight,

  Would give them Lodging for a Night,

  So taken up with foreign Jingle,

  Tralee despised them, likewise Dingle.

  But Drimin duh is still in favour,

  Since we from Murphy, beg, and crave her,

  Of him alone we must require

  To do her Justice on the Lyre,

  She, and old Eveleen a Rune,

  Are by the Muses kept in Tune,

  Who many Centuries have thrived,

  And doomed by fate to be long lived,

  With many others we know well,

  Which do in harmony excel.

  Dubourg improves them in our Days,

  And never from the subject strays,

  Nor by Extravagance perplext,

  Will let them wander from the text.

  MacGowran, on the Coal Black Joke,

  (To his great Credit be it spoke)

  Has multiplied upon that Strain,

  To shew his vast extensive Vein.

  Sweet Bocchi thought it worth his while,

  In doing honour to our Isle,

  To build on Carallan’s Foundation,

  Which he performed to Admiration,

  On his Pheracas went to work,

  With long Divisions on O’Rowrk.

  A Dean the greatest Judge of Wit,

  That ever wrote amongst us yet,

  Gave us a Version of the Song,

  Verbatim from the Irish Tongue.

  Ta me ma choll, and Candun dilish,

  For Ages have preserved their Relish,

  Together with Da mihi Manum,

  Which we may reckon an Arcanum,

  With all the Plankstys and Pleraccas,

  By Carallan in his Sonatas,

  The greatest Genius in his way,

  An Orpheus, who cou’d sing and play,

  So great a Bard where can we find,

  Like him illiterate, and blind.

  THOMAS SHERIDAN

  (1687–1738)

  To the Dean, When in England, in 1726

  You will excuse me, I suppose,

  For sending rhyme instead of prose,

  Because hot weather makes me lazy,

  To write in metre is more easy.

  While you are trudging London town,

  I’m strolling Dublin, up and down;

  While you converse with lords and dukes,

  I have their betters here, my books:

  Fixed in an elbow chair at ease,

  I choose companions as I please.

  I’d rather have one single shelf,

  Than all my friends, except your self;

  For after all that can be said,

  Our best acquaintance, are the dead.

  While you’re in raptures with Faustina,

  I’m charmed at home, with our Sheelina;

  While you are starving there in state,

  I’m cramming here with butcher’s meat:

  You say, when with those Lords you dine,

  They treat you with the best of wine;

  Burgundy, Cyprus, and Tockay,

  Why so can we, as well as they.

  No reason, my dear Dean,

  But you should travel home again.

  What though you mayn’t in Ireland hope,

  To find such folk as Gay and Pope:r />
  If you with rhymers here would share,

  But half the wit, that you can spare;

  I’d lay twelve eggs, that in twelve days,

  You’d make a doz’n of Popes and Gays.

  Our weather’s good, our sky is clear,

  We’ve every joy, if you were here;

  So lofty, and so bright a sky,

  Was never seen by Ireland’s-Eye!

  I think it fit to let you know,

  This week I shall to Quilca go;

  To see McFayden’s horny brothers,

  First suck, and after bull their mothers.

  To see alas, my withered trees!

  To see what all the country sees!

  My stunted quicks, my famished beeves,

  My servants such a pack of thieves;

  My shattered firs, my blasted oaks,

  My house in common to all folks:

  No cabbage for a single snail,

  My turnips, carrots, parsnips, fail;

  My no green peas, my few green sprouts,

  My mother always in the pouts:

  My horses rid, or gone astray,

  My fish all stol’n, or run away:

  My mutton lean, my pullets old,

  My poultry starved, the corn all sold.

  A man come now, from Quilca says,

  They’ve stolen the locks from all your keys:

  But what must fret and vex me more,

  He says, they stole the keys before.

  They’ve stol’n the knives from all the forks,

  And half the cows from half the sturks;

  Nay more, the fellow swears and vows,

  They’ve stol’n the sturks from half the cows.

  With many more accounts of woe,

  Yet though the devil be there, I’ll go:

  ’Twixt you and me, the reason’s clear,

  Because, I’ve more vexation here.

  JAMES WARD

  (1691–1736)

  The Smock Race at Finglas

  Now did the Bagpipe in hoarse Notes begin

  Th’ expected Signal to the neighb’ring Green;

  While the mild Sun, in the Decline of Day,

  Shoots from the distant West a cooler Ray.

  Alarmed, the sweating Crowds forsake the Town,

  Unpeopled Finglas is a Desert grown.

  Joan quits her Cows, that with full Udders stand,

  And low unheeded for the Milker’s Hand.

  The joyous Sound the distant Reapers hear,

  Their Harvest leave, and to the Sport repair.

  The Dublin Prentice, at the welcome Call,

  In Hurry rises from his Cakes and Ale;

  Handing the flaunting Seamstress o’er the Plains,