Has wept at tales of innocence distressed;
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn,
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn;
Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue fled,
Near her betrayer’s door she lays her head,
And, pinched with cold and shrinking from the shower,
With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour,
When idly first, ambitious of the town,
She left her wheel and robes of country brown.
Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train,
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain?
Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led,
At proud men’s doors they ask a little bread!
Ah, no. To distant climes, a dreary scene,
Where half the convex world intrudes between,
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go,
Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe.
Far different there from all that charmed before
The various terrors of that horrid shore:
Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray,
And fiercely shed intolerable day;
Those matted woods where birds forget to sing,
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling;
Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crowned,
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around;
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake;
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey,
And savage men more murderous still than they;
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,
Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies.
Far different these from every former scene,
The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green,
The breezy covert of the warbling grove,
That only sheltered thefts of harmless love.
Good Heaven! what sorrows gloomed that parting day,
That called them from their native walks away;
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past,
Hung round their bowers and fondly looked their last,
And took a long farewell and wished in vain
For seats like these beyond the western main;
And shuddering still to face the distant deep,
Returned and wept, and still returned to weep.
The good old sire the first prepared to go
To new found worlds, and wept for others’ woe;
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave,
He only wished for worlds beyond the grave.
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears,
The fond companion of his helpless years,
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,
And left a lover’s for a father’s arms.
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,
And blessed the cot where every pleasure rose;
And kissed her thoughtless babes with many a tear,
And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly dear;
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief
In all the silent manliness of grief.
O luxury! thou cursed by Heaven’s decree,
How ill exchanged are things like these for thee!
How do thy potions with insidious joy
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy!
Kingdoms, by thee to sickly greatness grown,
Boast of a florid vigour not their own.
At every draught more large and large they grow,
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe;
Till sapped their strength and every part unsound,
Down, down they sink and spread a ruin round.
Even now the devastation is begun,
And half the business of destruction done;
Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand,
I see the rural virtues leave the land.
Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail,
That idly waiting flaps with every gale,
Downward they move, a melancholy band,
Pass from the shore and darken all the strand.
Contented toil and hospitable care,
And kind connubial tenderness are there;
And piety, with wishes placed above,
And steady loyalty and faithful love.
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid,
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade;
Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame,
To catch the heart or strike for honest fame;
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried,
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride;
Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe,
That found’st me poor at first and keep’st me so;
Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel,
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well!
Farewell, and oh, where’er thy voice be tried,
On Torno’s cliffs or Pambamarca’s side,
Whether where equinoctial fervours glow,
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow,
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,
Redress the rigours of the inclement clime;
Aid slighted truth: with thy persuasive strain
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain;
Teach him that states of native strength possessed,
Though very poor, may still be very blest;
That trade’s proud empire hastes to swift decay,
As ocean sweeps the laboured mole away;
While self-dependent power can time defy,
As rocks resist the billows and the sky.
from Retaliation
Of old, when Scarron his companions invited,
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united.
If our landlord supplies us with beef and with fish,
Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish:
Our Dean shall be venison, just fresh from the plains;
Our Burke shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains;
Our Will shall be wild-fowl, of excellent flavour,
And Dick with his pepper shall heighten their savour;
Our Cumberland’s sweet-bread its place shall obtain,
And Douglas’s pudding, substantial and plain;
Our Garrick’s a salad, for in him we see
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree;
To make out the dinner, full certain I am
That Ridge is anchovy, and Reynolds is lamb;
That Hickey’s a capon, and by the same rule,
Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool.
At a dinner so various, at such a repast,
Who’d not be a glutton and stick to the last?
Here, waiter! more wine, let me sit while I’m able,
Till all my companions sink under the table;
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head,
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead.
Here lies the good Dean, reunited to earth,
Who mixed reason with pleasure and wisdom with mirth:
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt:
At least, in six weeks I could not find ’em out;
Yet some have declared, and it can’t be denied ’em,
That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide ’em.
Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such,
We scarcely can praise it or blame it too much;
Who, born for the universe, narrowed his mind,
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind;
Though fraught with all learning, kept straining his throat
To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote;
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,
And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining;
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit;
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit;
For a patriot, too cool; for a drudge, disobedient;
And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient.
In short, ’twas his fate, unemployed or in place, sir,
To eat mutton cold and cut blocks with a razor.
EOGHAN RUA Ó SÚILLEABHÁIN
(c.1748–84)
Poet to Blacksmith
Séamus, make me a side-arm to take on the earth,
A suitable tool for digging and grubbing the ground,
Lightsome and pleasant to lean on or cut with or lift,
Tastily finished and trim and right for the hand.
No trace of the hammer to show on the sheen of the blade,
The thing to have purchase and spring and be fit for the strain,
The shaft to be socketed in dead true and dead straight,
And I’ll work with the gang till I drop and never complain.
The plate and the edge of it not to be wrinkly or crooked –
I see it well shaped from the anvil and sharp from the file;
The grain of the wood and the line of the shaft nicely fitted,
And best thing of all, the ring of it, sweet as a bell.
Seamus Heaney
A Magic Mist
Through the deep night a magic mist led me
like a simpleton roaming the land,
no friends of my bosom beside me,
an outcast in places unknown.
I stretched out dejected and tearful
in a nut-sheltered wood all alone
and prayed to the bright King of Glory
with ‘Mercy!’ alone on my lips.
My heart, I declare, full of turmoil
in that wood with no human sound nigh,
the thrush’s sweet voice the sole pleasure,
ever singing its tunes on each bough.
Then a noble sídh-girl sat beside me
like a saint in her figure and form:
in her countenance roses contended
with white – and I know not which lost.
Furrowed thick, yellow-twisting and golden
was the lady’s hair down to her shoes,
her brows without flaw, and like amber
her luring eye, death to the brave.
Sweet, lovely, delicious – pure music –
the harp-notes of the sídh from her lips,
breasts rounded, smooth, chalk-white, most proper,
never marred by another, I swear.
Though lost to myself till that moment,
with love for the lady I throbbed
and I found myself filled with great pleasure
that she was directed my way.
How it fell, I write out in these verses,
how I let my lips speak unrestrained,
the sweet things that I told the fair maiden
as we stretched on the green mountain-slope:
‘Are you, languid-eyed lady who pierced me
with love for your face and your form,
the Fair-One caused hordes to be slaughtered
as they write in the Battle of Troy?
Or the mild royal girl who let languish
the chief of Boru and his troop?
Or the queen who decreed that the great prince
from Howth follow far in pursuit?’
Delicious, sweet, tender, she answered,
ever shedding tears down in her pain:
‘I am none of those women you speak of,
and I see that you don’t know my clan.
I’m the bride wed in bliss for a season,
under right royal rule, to the King
over Caiseal of Conn and of Eoghan
who ruled undisputed o’er Fódla.
‘Gloomy my state, sad and mournful,
by horned tyrants daily devoured,
and heavy oppressed by grim blackguards
while my prince is set sailing abroad.
I look to the great Son of Glory
to send my lion back to his sway
in his strong native towns, in good order,
to flay the swarth goats with his blades.’
‘Mild, golden-haired, courteous fair lady,
of true royal blood, and no lie,
I mourn for your plight among blackguards,
sad and joyless, dark under a pall.
If your King to his strong native mansions
the Son of Glory should send, in His aid,
those swarth goats – swift, freely and willing –
with shot would I joyfully flay!
‘If our Stuart returned o’er the ocean
to the lands of Inis Áilge in full course
with a fleet of Louis’ men, and the Spaniard’s,
by dint of joy truly I’d be
on a prancing pure steed of swift mettle
ever sluicing them out with much shot
– after which I’d not injure my spirit
standing guard for the rest of my life.’
Thomas Kinsella
Rodney’s Glory
Give ear, ye British hearts of gold,
That e’er disdain to be controlled,
Good news to you I will unfold,
’Tis of brave Rodney’s glory,
Who always bore a noble heart,
And from his colours ne’er would start,
But always took his country’s part
Against each foe who dared t’oppose
Or blast the bloom of England’s Rose,
So now observe my story.
’Twas in the year of Eighty Two,
The Frenchmen know full well ’tis true,
Brave Rodney did their fleet subdue,
Not far from old Fort Royal.
Full early by the morning’s light,
The proud De Grasse appeared in sight,
And thought brave Rodney to affright,
With colours spread at each mast-head,
Long pendants, too, both white and red,
A signal for engagement.
Our Admiral then he gave command,
That each should at his station stand,
‘Now, for the sake of Old England,
We’ll show them British valour.’
Then we the British Flag displayed,
No tortures could our hearts invade,
Both sides began to cannonade,
Their mighty shot we valued not,
We plied our ‘Irish pills’ so hot,
Which put them in confusion.
This made the Frenchmen to combine,
And draw their shipping in a line,
To sink our fleet was their design,
But they were far mistaken;
Broadside for broadside we let fly,
Till they in hundreds bleeding lie,
The seas were all of crimson dye,
Full deep we stood in human blood,
Surrounded by a scarlet flood,
But still we fought courageous.
So loud our cannons that the roar
Re-echoed round the Indian shore,
Both ships and rigging suffered sore,
We kept such constant firing;
Our guns did roar and smoke did rise,
And clouds of sulphur veiled the skies,
Which filled De Grasse with wild surprise;
Both Rodney’s guns and Paddy’s sons
Make echo shake where’er they come,
They fear no French or Spaniards.
From morning’s dawn to fall of night,
We did maintain this bloody fight,
Being still regardless of their might,
We fought like Irish heroes.
Though on the deck did bleeding lie
Many of our men in agony,
We resolved to conquer or die,
To
gain the glorious victory,
And would rather suffer to sink or die
Than offer to surrender.
So well our quarters we maintained,
Five captured ships we have obtained,
And thousands of their men were slain,
During this hot engagement;
Our British metal flew like hail,
Until at length the French turned tail,
Drew in their colours and made sail
In deep distress, as you may guess,
And when they got in readiness
They sailed down to Fort Royal.
Now may prosperity attend
Brave Rodney and his Irishmen,
And may he never want a friend
While he shall reign commander;
Success to our Irish officers,
Seamen bold and jolly tars,
Who like darling sons of Mars
Take delight in the fight
And vindicate bold England’s right
And die for Erin’s glory.
BRIAN MERRIMAN
(c.1749–1805)
Cúirt an Mheán-Oíche (The Midnight Court)
’Twas my custom to stroll by a clear winding stream,
With my boots full of dew from the lush meadow green,
Near a neck of the woods where the mountain holds sway,
Without danger or fear at the dawn of the day.
The sight of Lough Graney would dazzle my eyes,
As the countryside sparkled beneath the blue skies;
Uplifting to see how the mountains were stacked,
Each head peeping over a neighbouring back.
It would lighten the heart, be it listless with age,
Enfeebled by folly, or cardiac rage –
Your wherewithal racked by financial disease –
To perceive through a gap in the wood full of trees
A squadron of ducks in a shimmering bay,
Escorting the swan on her elegant way,
The trout on the rise with its mouth to the light,
While the perch swims below like a speckledy sprite,
And the billows of blue become foam as they break
With a thunderous crash on the shores of the lake,
And the birds in the trees whistle bird-songs galore,
The deer gallop lightly though woods dark as yore,
Where trumpeting huntsmen and hounds of the hunt
Chase the shadow of Reynard, who leads from the front.
Yesterday morning, a cloudless blue sky
Bore the signs of another hot day in July;
Bright Phoebus arose from the darkness of night,
And got back to his business of spreading the light.
Around me were branches of trees in full leaf
The Penguin Book of Irish Poetry Page 31