Knowledge or niceness, wit or favour:
The breeches he wore were riddled with holes
And his boots without a tack of the soles.
Believe me, friends, if you sold at a fair,
Himself and his wife, his kids and gear,
When the costs were met, by the Holy Martyr,
You’d still go short for a glass of porter.
But the devil’s child has the devil’s cheek –
You that never owned cow nor sheep,
With buckles and brogues and rings to order –
You that were reared in the reek of solder!
However the rest of the world is gypped
I knew you when you went half-stripped;
And I’d venture a guess that in what you lack
A shift would still astonish your back;
And, shy as you seem, an inquisitive gent
Might study the same with your full consent.
Bosom and back are tightly laced,
Or is it the stays that gives you the waist?
Oh, all can see the way you shine,
But your looks are no concern of mine.
Now tell us the truth and don’t be shy
How long are you eating your dinner dry?
A meal of spuds without butter or milk,
And dirt in layers beneath the silk.
Bragging and gab are yours by right,
But I know too where you sleep at night,
And blanket or quilt you never saw
But a strip of old mat and a bundle of straw,
In a hovel of mud without a seat,
And slime that settles about your feet,
A carpet of weeds from door to wall
And hens inscribing their tracks on all;
The rafters in with a broken back
And brown rain lashing through every crack –
’Twas there you learned to look so nice,
But now may we ask how you came by the price?
We all admired the way you spoke,
But whisper, treasure, who paid for the cloak?
A sparrow with you would die of hunger –
How did you come by all the grandeur,
All the tassels and all the lace –
Would you have us believe they were got in grace?
The frock made a hole in somebody’s pocket,
And it wasn’t you that paid for the jacket;
But assuming that and the rest no news,
How the hell did you come by the shoes?
‘Your worship, ’tis women’s sinful pride
And that alone has the world destroyed.
Every young man that’s ripe for marriage
Is hooked like this by some tricky baggage,
And no one is secure, for a friend of my own,
As nice a boy as ever I’ve known
That lives from me only a perch or two –
God help him! – married misfortune too.
It breaks my heart when she passes by
With her saucy looks and head held high,
Cows to pasture and fields of wheat,
And money to spare – and all deceit!
Well-fitted to rear a tinker’s clan,
She waggles her hips at every man,
With her brazen face and bullock’s hide,
And such airs and graces, and mad with pride.
And – that God may judge me! – only I hate
A scandalous tongue, I could relate
Things of that woman’s previous state
As one with whom every man could mate
In any convenient field or gate
As the chance might come to him early or late!
But now, of course, we must all forget
Her galloping days and the pace she set;
The race she ran in Ibrackane,
In Manishmore and Teermaclane,
With young and old of the meanest rabble
Of Ennis, Clareabbey and Quin astraddle!
Toughs from Tradree out on a fling,
And Cratlee cutthroats sure to swing;
But still I’d say ’twas the neighbours’ spite,
And the girl did nothing but what was right,
But the devil take her and all she showed!
I found her myself on the public road,
On the naked earth with a bare backside
And a Garus turf-cutter astride!
Is it any wonder my heart is failing,
That I feel that the end of the world is nearing,
When, ploughed and sown to all men’s knowledge,
She can manage the child to arrive with marriage,
And even then, put to the pinch,
Begrudges Charity an inch;
For, counting from the final prayer
With the candles quenched and the altar bare
To the day when her offspring takes the air
Is a full nine months with a week to spare?
‘But you see the troubles a man takes on!
From the minute he marries his peace is gone;
Forever in fear of a neighbour’s sneer –
And my own experience cost me dear.
I lived alone as happy as Larry
Till I took it into my head to marry,
Tilling my fields with an easy mind,
Going wherever I felt inclined,
Welcomed by all as a man of price,
Always ready with good advice.
The neighbours listened – they couldn’t refuse
For I’d money and stock to uphold my views –
Everything came at my beck and call
Till a woman appeared and destroyed it all:
A beautiful girl with ripening bosom,
Cheeks as bright as apple-blossom,
Hair that glimmered and foamed in the wind,
And a face that blazed with the light behind;
A tinkling laugh and a modest carriage
And a twinkling eye that was ripe for marriage.
I goggled and gaped like one born mindless
Till I took her face for a form of kindness,
Though that wasn’t quite what the Lord intended
For He marked me down like a man offended
For a vengeance that wouldn’t be easy mended
With my folly exposed and my comfort ended.
‘Not to detain you here all day
I married the girl without more delay,
And took my share in the fun that followed.
There was plenty for all and nothing borrowed.
Be fair to me now! There was no one slighted;
The beggarmen took the road delighted;
The clerk and mummers were elated;
The priest went home with his pocket weighted.
The lamps were lit, the guests arrived;
The supper was ready, the drink was plied;
The fiddles were flayed, and, the night advancing,
The neighbours joined in the sport and dancing.
‘A pity to God I didn’t smother
When first I took the milk from my mother,
Or any day I ever broke bread
Before I brought that woman to bed!
For though everyone talked of her carouses
As a scratching post of the publichouses
That as sure as ever the glasses would jingle
Flattened herself to married and single,
Admitting no modesty to mention,
I never believed but ’twas all invention.
They added, in view of the life she led,
I might take to the roads and beg my bread,
But I took it for talk and hardly minded –
Sure, a man like me could never be blinded! –
And I smiled and nodded and off I tripped
Till my wedding night when I saw her stripped,
And knew too late that this was no libel
Spread in the pub by some jealous rival –
By God, ’twas a
fact, and well-supported:
I was a father before I started!
‘So there I was in the cold daylight,
A family man after one short night!
The women around me, scolding, preaching,
The wife in bed and the baby screeching.
I stirred the milk as the kettle boiled
Making a bottle to give the child;
All the old hags at the hob were cooing
As if they believed it was all my doing –
Flattery worse than ever you heard:
“Glory and praise to our blessed Lord,
Though he came in a hurry, the poor little creature,
He’s the spit of his da in every feature.
Sal, will you look at the cut of that lip!
There’s fingers for you! Feel his grip!
Would you measure the legs and the rolls of fat!
Was there ever a seven month child like that?”
And they traced away with great preciseness
My matchless face in the baby’s likeness;
The same snub nose and frolicsome air,
And the way I laugh and the way I stare;
And they swore that never from head to toe
Was a child that resembled his father so.
But they wouldn’t let me go near the wonder –
“Sure, a draught would blow the poor child asunder!”
All of them out to blind me further –
“The least little breath would be noonday murder!”
Malice and lies! So I took the floor,
Mad with rage and I cursed and swore,
And bade them all to leave my sight.
They shrank away with faces white,
And moaned as they handed me the baby:
“Don’t crush him now! Can’t you handle him easy?
The least thing hurts them. Treat him kindly!
Some fall she got brought it on untimely.
Don’t lift his head but leave him lying!
Poor innocent scrap, and to think he’s dying!
If he lives at all till the end of day
Till the priest can come ’tis the most we’ll pray!”
‘I off with the rags and set him free,
And studied him well as he lay on my knee.
That too, by God, was nothing but lies
For he staggered myself with his kicks and cries.
A pair of shoulders like my own,
Legs like sausages, hair fullgrown;
His ears stuck out and his nails were long,
His hands and wrists and elbows strong;
His eyes were bright, his nostrils wide,
And the knee-caps showing beneath his hide –
A champion, begod, a powerful whelp,
As healthy and hearty as myself!
‘Young woman, I’ve made my case entire.
Justice is all that I require.
Once consider the terrible life
We lead from the minute we take a wife,
And you’ll find and see that marriage must stop
And the men unmarried must be let off.
And, child of grace, don’t think of the race;
Plenty will follow to take our place;
There are ways and means to make lovers agree
Without making a show of men like me.
There’s no excuse for all the exploiters;
Cornerboys, clerks and priests and pipers –
Idle fellows that leave you broke
With the jars of malt and the beer they soak,
When the Mother of God herself could breed
Without asking the views of clerk of creed.
Healthy and happy, wholesome and sound,
The come-by-twilight sort abound;
No one assumes but their lungs are ample,
And their hearts as sound as the best example.
When did Nature display unkindness
To the bastard child in disease or blindness?
Are they not handsomer, better-bred
Than many that come of a lawful bed?
‘I needn’t go far to look for proof
For I’ve one of the sort beneath my roof –
Let him come here for all to view!
Look at him now! You see ’tis true.
Agreed, we don’t know his father’s name,
But his mother admires him just the same,
And if in all things else he shines
Who cares for his baptismal lines?
He isn’t a dwarf or an old man’s error,
A paralytic or walking terror,
He isn’t a hunchback or a cripple
But a lightsome, laughing gay young divil.
’Tis easy to see he’s no flash in the pan;
No sleepy, good-natured, respectable man,
Without sinew or bone or belly or bust,
Or venom or vice or love or lust,
Buckled and braced in every limb
Spouted the seed that flowered in him:
For back and leg and chest and height
Prove him to all in the teeth of spite
A child begotten in fear and wonder
In the blood’s millrace and the body’s thunder.
‘Down with marriage! It’s out of date;
It exhausts the stock and cripples the state.
The priest has failed with whip and blinker
Now give a chance to Tom the Tinker,
And mix and mash in Nature’s can
The tinker and the gentleman!
Let lovers in every lane extended
Struggle and strain as God intended
And locked in frenzy bring to birth
The morning glory of the earth;
The starry litter, girl and boy
Who’ll see the world once more with joy.
Clouds will break and skies will brighten,
Mountains bloom and spirits lighten,
And men and women praise your might,
You who restore the old delight.’
Frank O’Connor
The girl having listened to this peroration,
She jumped to her feet with no little impatience,
And glared at the geezer with eyes full of fire,
And gave him an earful of feminine ire:
‘By the crown of Craglee, if I didn’t admit
That you’re doting, decrepit, and feeble of wit –
And to treat this assembly with all due respect –
I’d rip off your head from its scrawny wee neck,
And I’d knock it for six with the toe of my boot,
And I’d give the remainder no end of abuse,
And I’d pluck such a tune from the strings of your heart,
I’d consign you to Hell without halo or harp.
It’s beneath me to answer your cretinous case –
You snivelling creep, you’re a bloody disgrace!
But I want to reveal to the court and the judge
How you made a true lady a miserable drudge.
‘She was poor, and alone, without cattle or land,
With no roof, and no hearth, and no family at hand;
Bewildered by life, and as pale as a ghost,
Homeless she wandered from pillar to post,
Without respite or comfort by day and by night,
Of necessity begging the odd sup or bite.
He promised her this and he promised her that,
This wretch promised all, with his plausible chat –
Her fair share of wealth, and a field of good cows,
Her nights to be spent in a bed of soft down,
A brightly tiled hearth, an abundance of peat,
A kitchen, a parlour, an elegant suite,
Lamb’s wool and linen to weave into clothes,
And a well-slated roof on this cosy abode.
It’s well known to most of the girls in the town
It wasn’t for love that she married this clown,
; But that all things being equal, ’twas better to wed
Than to walk the dark roads, and to beg for her bread.
‘What pleasure she had when she got into bed
With this manky old geezer left much to be said –
Sharp were his shanks, and bony his shoulders;
Icy his thighs, and his knees even colder;
His feet bore the pong of a fire of damp turf;
His body was shrivelled, and covered in scurf.
What jewel alive could endure such a fate,
Without going as grey as her doddering mate,
Who rarely, if ever, was struck by the wish
To determine her sex, whether boy, flesh or fish?
As flaccid and bony beside her he lay –
Huffy and surly, with no urge for play.
And oh! how she longed for her conjugal right,
A jolly good tumble at least once a night!
Don’t think for a minute that she was to blame,
Too modest or frigid to kindle a flame!
Attractive and bright, with an amiable heart,
This lady was skilled in the amorous art;
She’d work through the night, and she liked it a lot,
For she’d give the right fellow as good as she got,
And, urging him on with her murmurs and sighs,
She would stretch at her ease, with a gleam in her eyes.
She wouldn’t retreat in a sulk at his touch,
Or assault like a wildcat, with sideswipe and scratch,
But slither and slide in a mutual embrace,
Her legs round his body, her face to his face,
Exchanging sweet nothings, and stroking his skin,
Her mouth on his mouth, and their tongues going in,
Caressing his back with the ball of her heel,
And rubbing her brush from his waist to his knee.
As for the old sluggard, she’d snatch off the quilt
And try to arouse what lay under his kilt,
But for all that she nuzzled and nibbled and squeezed,
The more that she snuggled, and tickled and teased –
Well, I hate to relate how she spent the whole night,
Despairingly wrapped in her amorous plight;
Tossing and turning with bedclothes awry,
She’d shiver and shake till she thought she would die,
From sunset to dawn neither waking nor sleeping,
But hugging her bosom, and sobbing and weeping.
‘How dare this old dirt-bird discuss womankind,
When a proof of his manhood no woman can find!
And were he a blade who’d got no satisfaction,
I might go along with his angry reaction.
Take a fox on the prowl, or a fish in the mere,
An eagle on wing or a wandering deer –
Would any dumb beast, for a day or a year,
Go hungry for grub when its lunch is so near?
And where in the world would you find such a case,
The Penguin Book of Irish Poetry Page 33