The Penguin Book of Irish Poetry
Page 35
May Oscar with his fiery Flail
To Atoms thresh all Doneraile.
May every Mischief fresh and stale
Abide henceforth in Doneraile.
May all from Belfast to Kinsale
Scoff, curse, and damn you, Doneraile.
May neither Flour nor Oatmeal
Be found or known in Doneraile.
May Want and Woe each Joy curtail
That e’er was known in Doneraile.
May not one Coffin want a Nail
That wraps a Rogue in Doneraile.
May all the Sons of Granuwale
Blush at the thieves of Doneraile.
May Mischief big as Norway Whale
O’erwhelm the Knaves of Doneraile.
May Curses wholesale and retail
Pour with full force on Doneraile.
May every Transport wont to Sail
A Convict bring from Doneraile.
May every Churn and milking Pail
Fall dry to staves in Doneraile.
May Cold and Hunger still congeal
The stagnant Blood of Doneraile.
May every Hour new Woes reveal
That Hell reserves for Doneraile.
May every chosen Ill prevail
O’er all the Imps of Doneraile.
May not one Wish or Prayer avail
To soothe the Woes of Doneraile.
May th’Inquisition straight impale
The Rapparees of Doneraile.
May Curse of Sodom now prevail
And sink to Ashes Doneraile.
May Charon’s Boat triumphant sail
Completely manned from Doneraile;
And may grim Pluto’s inner Jail
Forever groan with Doneraile;
And may my Couplets never fail
To find new Curses for Doneraile!
SAMUEL THOMSON
(1766–1816)
To a Hedge-Hog
Unguarded beauty is disgrace.
Broome
While youthful poets, thro’ the grove,
Chaunt saft their canny lays o’ love,
And a’ their skill exert to move
The darling object;
I chuse, as ye may shortly prove,
A rougher subject.
What fairsfn1 to bother us in sonnet,
’Bout chin an’ cheek, an’ brow an’ bonnet?
Just chirlinfn2 like a widow’d linnet,
Thro’ bushes lurchin;
Love’s stangsfn3 are ill to thole, I own it,
But to my hurchin.fn4
Thou grimest far o’ grusome tykes,fn5
Grubbing thy food by thorny dykes,
Gudefaith thou disna want for pikes,
Baith sharp an’ rauckle;fn6
Thou looks (L—d save’s) array’d in spikes,
A creepin heckle!fn7
Some say thou’rt sibfn8 kin to the sow,
But sibber to the deil,fn9 I trow;
An’ what thy use can be, there’s few
That can explain;
But naithing, as the learn’d allow,
Was made in vain.
Sure Nick begat thee, at the first,
On some auld whinfn10 or thorn accurst;
An’ some horn-finger’d harpie nurst
The ugly urchin;
Then Belzie,fn11 laughin, like to burst
First ca’d thee Hurchin.
Fok tell how thou, sae far frae daft,
Whar wind fa’n fruit lie scatter’d saft,
Will row thysel, wi’ cunning craft,
An’ bear awa
Upon thy back, what fairsfn12 thee aft
A day or twa.
But whether this account be true,
Is mair than I will here avow;
If that thou stribsfn13 the outlerfn14 cow,
As some assert,
A pretty milkmaid, I allow,
Forsooth thou art.
I’ve heard the superstitious say,
To meet thee on our morning way,
Portends some dire misluck that day –
Some black mischance;
Sic fools, howe’er, are far astray
Frae common sense.
Right monie a hurchin I hae seen,
At early morn, and ekefn15 at e’en,
Baith setting off, an’ whan I’ve been
Returning hame;
But Fate, indifferent, I ween,
Was much the same.
How lang will mortals nonsense blether,
And sauls to superstition tether!
For witchcraft, omens, altogether,
Are damn’d hotch-potch mock,fn16
That now obtain sma credit either
Frae us or Scotch fok.
Now creep awa the way ye came,
And tend your squeakin pups at hame;
Gin Colley should o’erhear the same,
It might be fatal,
For you, wi’ a’ the pikes ye claim,
Wi’ him to battle.
THOMAS DERMODY
(1775–1802)
Tam to Rab: An Odaic Epistle
Hail, brither Rab, thou genuine Bard,
May laurels be thy grand reward!
Laurels, with gold and siller hard,
To fill the purse,
For else, they are not worth a card,
Or Beldame’s curse.
Arcades ambo!fn1 baith are ready,
T’invoke, and woo, each tunefu’ Lady,
But thou, sweet friend, hast got a trade, I
Ken no such thing,
Thou can’st e’en drive the ploughshare steady;
I can but sing.
Yet, would I glad gang out with thee,
To strew my barley on the lea;
Wow! we would gloriously agree,
Poetics gabbling,
Ne, ever, o’er the dram, would we
Be squabbling.
Keen as thy wit, the scythe we’d wield,
Culling each flower the wild woods yield,
Together, urge our team afield;
Together rhyme,
And mark the Sun yon mountain gild
Till supper time.
Allan’s braw lilts we’d rehearse,
And laugh and weep and talk in verse;
While grey-eyed Judgment, sapient nurse,
Our thoughts would prune,
And Fancy roseate bands disperse,
Our brows to crown.
Yes, Rab, I love thee in my heart,
Thy simple notes, uncurbed by art;
That bid the tear of passion start,
And, sure I am,
Ere from this wicked world we part,
You’ll jostle Tam.
And if you do, by Peter’s keys,
We’ll quaff stout whiskey at our ease;
Drive fools before our verse, like geese,
And clink the can,
Till we shall rise, by twelve degrees,
’Bove reptile Man.
The Simile
’Tis like a hat without a head,
’Tis like a house without a shed,
’Tis like a gun without a lock,
’Tis like a swain without a flock,
’Tis like a town without a school,
’Tis like a King without a fool,
’Tis like a dog without a tail,
’Tis like a barn without a flail,
’Tis like a goose without a spit,
’Tis like a brain without a wit,
’Tis like a cap without a border,
’Tis like a bill without an order,
’Tis like a shop without a clerk,
’Tis like a flint without a spark,
’Tis like a knave without a place,
’Tis like a knife without a case,
’Tis like a lawyer without Latin,
’Tis like a meeting without ‘G’ –
In short, at once to stop my mouthing,
’Tis like – what is it like? – like nothing.
The Poet’s Inventory
A broken stool, two legs demolished,
A board, by constant friction polished;
A bottle-neck, for ink or candle;
A battered jug, without a handle;
A dozen pens, the worse for scribbling;
A trap, to keep the mice from nibbling;
A box for coals, the bottom out;
A teapot, lacking top and spout;
A tott’ring chair, the back long missing;
A screen, which wants a woundy piecing;
A bed, without a sheet or blanket;
A pint of beer, if no one drank it;
A Fielding’s Works, Volume the Second;
And thus the whole estate is reckoned.
ROBERT EMMET
(1778–1803)
Arbour Hill
No rising column marks this spot,
Where many a victim lies;
But oh! the blood that here has streamed,
To heaven for justice cries.
It claims it on the oppressor’s head,
Who joys in human woe,
Who drinks the tears by misery shed,
And mocks them as they flow.
It claims it on the callous judge,
Whose hands in blood are dyed,
Who arms injustice with the sword,
The balance throws aside.
It claims it for his ruined isle,
Her wretched children’s grave;
Where withered Freedom droops her head,
And man exists – a slave.
O sacred justice! free this land
From tyranny abhorred;
Resume thy balance and thy seat –
Resume – but sheathe thy sword.
No retribution should we seek –
Too long has horror reigned;
By mercy marked may freedom rise,
By cruelty unstained.
Nor shall the tyrant’s ashes mix
With those our martyred dead;
This is the place where Erin’s sons
In Erin’s cause have bled.
And those who here are laid at rest,
Oh! hallowed be each name;
Their memories are forever blest –
Consigned to endless fame.
Unconsecrated is this ground,
Unblest by holy hands;
No bell here tolls its solemn sound,
No monument here stands.
But here the patriot’s tears are shed,
The poor man’s blessing given;
These consecrate the virtuous dead,
These waft their fame to heaven.
IV
* * *
SONG TO 1800
Upon a fair morning for soft recreation …
‘The Blackbird’
Old Irish
DALLÁN FORGAILL
(attrib.)
Be Thou My Vision
Be Thou my vision, O Lord of my heart,
be all else but naught to me, save that thou art;
be Thou my best thought in the day and the night,
both waking and sleeping, Thy presence my light.
Be Thou my wisdom, be Thou my true word,
be Thou ever with me, and I with Thee Lord;
be Thou my great Father, and I Thy true son;
be Thou in me dwelling, and I with Thee one.
Be Thou my breastplate, my sword for the fight;
be Thou my whole armour, be Thou my true might;
be Thou my soul’s shelter, be Thou my strong tower:
O raise Thou me heavenward, great Power of my power.
Riches I heed not, nor man’s empty praise:
be Thou mine inheritance now and always;
be Thou and Thou only the first in my heart;
O Sovereign of heaven, my treasure Thou art.
High King of heaven, thou heaven’s bright sun,
O grant me its joys after victory is won;
great Heart of my own heart, whatever befall,
still be Thou my vision, O Ruler of all.
Mary Elizabeth Byrne and Eleanor Hull
ULTÁN OF ARDBRACCAN
(fl. c.660)
Hymn to St Brigit
Brigit, dazzling flame,
ever steady woman,
draw us to eternity,
be our sparkling sun.
Lead us safely through
jostling crowds of devils;
rout before our eyes
every tempting evil.
The snares that plague all flesh
may she destroy within us,
Brigit the flowering branch,
mother, too, of Jesus.
Loved and honest virgin,
maid of immense honour,
vigilant protectress,
saint of local Leinster.
She and holy Patrick,
twin pillars of this kingdom,
she the fragrant blossom
and personage most queenly.
When we reach old age
in penitential sackcloth,
please still give us shelter,
grace-dispensing Brigit.
Máirín Ní Dhonnchadha and PC
Latin
COLUMBANUS
(c.543–615)
Hymn to the Trinity
This to the Father
king of might
Christ Jesus
and the Holy Ghost.
One God
whole substance
trefoil person
single essence.
Bright effluence
increate
pure ethereal
lightfont.
Equinox springing
Son-like shone
on worldstuff
from Heaven.
Firstword firstflesh
one light ever
into worldmatter
sent by the Father.
He stripped power
from Chaos
banished Night
at once.
Old foes down,
He untied
the firmament’s
deathbonds.
What before
was darkgulch
this day of days
light drenched.
The very day
light revealing
a pendent chain
ignorance concealing.
This same day
it is said
Israel freed,
parted the Red Sea.
Thus we learn
put no value
on worldly deed –
cleave to virtue.
Cruel Pharaoh drowned
eager voices hymn
God’s renown
their beacon.
Saved from straits
we likewise
should offer God
our praise.
He
initiates light
He
ordains salvation.
First
in diurnal turning
second
in faith’s fever.
At worldsend
clearing mystery
He will come
in clemency.
This much
is elementary
prophets proclaim –
most celebratory!
Born a man
fleshly making;
heaven-present,
Trinity-partaking.
Swaddled, He mewls
as mages kneel down
shining among stars
adored in heaven.
Bounded in
a mere cradle
His fist
girdles the world.
First portent
His disciples saw
water changed
to wine’s nectar.
He brought to pass
words of the prophet:
the cripple shall
bound as the hart.
/> The mute speaks
tonguechain
unlinked at
His command.
Deaf hear, blind see,
lepers take cure
borne corpse
steps from bier.
Five thousand
men, five loaves;
it is true
none starved.
Such stock
of mercy,
(spurred by spite
the Adversary
thwarts as he
hates and envies)
His sacrifice
made for enemies.
A criminal
charge against
Him, who
is all grace.
They came for
Him armed, as if
He were a robber
hell-bound thief.
He stood before
man’s doom,
the Eternal judged
by mortal tribune.
Nailed to rood
He made heaven
quake; the third hour
quenched the sun.
Rocks racked
holy veil rent
tombs open
dead awake.
He tore through rusted
teeth of hell
that which kept us
long in thrall.
Adam Firstmade
his sad generations
flung to death’s wild
maw by sin.
Man who lived once
in Paradise
by mercy’s work
home at last.
The head is raised of
a catholic corps
founded in Father,
Son and Holy Ghost.
Heaven-sent pillars
of the Church; gates
point to eternity
with God’s confederates.
He hoists
the stray lamb
bears it
to the pen.
We look forward
to judgement
returning to Him
our talent.
What recompense
when He gives
at such high rate
so generous!
How can mortal
stammerers
speak of such
great mysteries?
We can but pray,
eternally pray,
O Lord hear
our miserere.
Kit Fryatt
Rowing Song
Though hewn from the forests, our little boat now glides
Up the twin-horned Rhine as if born to the task.
Heave, men, heave, let echo shout back Heave!
Winds may get blowy and rain drive at us hard
But strength of men combined can conquer any storm.
Heave, men, heave, let echo shout back Heave!