The Penguin Book of Irish Poetry
Page 40
And as a true-love token wear it on your right hand,
That you’ll think on my poor broken heart when you’re in foreign land.’
Then out spoke noble Fox: ‘You may let the prisoner go;
The lady’s oath has cleared him, as the Jury all may know.
She has released her own true love, she has renewed his name;
May her honour bright gain high estate, and her offspring rise to fame!’
The Irish Phœnix
Once more kind Muses it is your duty, for to infuse me with verse sublime,
My subject surely is now amusing, as you have chose me for to repine;
Ye mangling poets don’t dare oppose me, for now my notions are raised on high,
Kind Gods support me through these my posies, in you I glory and still rely.
One pleasant evening for recreation, as I was ranging down by the shore,
I spied a maiden a lovely fair one, I thought her Venus sprung from the foam,
In admiration on her I gazed, in deep amazement I stood to view,
This second Phœnix exceeding nature and for to praise her it is my due.
To you fair Sabra in all her charms or chaste Diana can’t equalize,
Nor she whom Paris as is recorded was pleased to order the Golden Prize;
The bright Aurora in all her glory or Goddess Flora you far outvie,
My brain is roving in sad emotions I must adore you until I die.
You are an angel, your good and pleasing, your fine behaviour enchanted me,
Your chains are really, I’m doomed to wear them, I wish sincerely for liberty.
These wounds you gave me, say will you heal them, you have enslaved me, now set me free,
It’s you can ease me, from bonds release me, and let me gain my tranquility.
My jewel and darling, more fair than morning, or orient radiant you far outshine,
Your eyes transparent has me alarmed, I wish, my charmer, that you were mine;
Your swan-like bosom, your neck including, your cheeks are blooming vermillion red,
Sure every feature new beauty graces, and auburn tresses flow from your head.
My breast is loaded with discomposure, in love sick motion I now complain,
Sly Cupid sporting at my corrodings, that brat he glories in giving pain;
Will you relieve me, from death reprieve me, your captive bleeder I now remain,
I’m always weeping and still am grieving, but it’s when sleeping of you I dream.
All recreations I’ll now renege them, in silent places I mean to rove,
My prayers compleatly I’ll offer daily, in adoration near Willow Grove,
Ye Supreme Deities say will I gain her, will I obtain her, can I intrude,
On you my fairest what shall I say love, but that I’m almost crazy for Mary Booth?
Anonymous Songs of the 1798 Rebellion
IRISH
Slievenamon
It is my sorrow that this day’s troubles
Poor Irishmen so sore did strike,
Because our tyrants are laughing at us,
And say they fear neither fork nor pike;
Our Major never came to lead us,
We had no orders and drifted on
As you’d send a drover with a cow to the fair
On the sunny side of Slievenamon.
Ross was the place we were defeated,
There we left many a pikeman dead,
Little children burned to ashes,
Women in holes and ditches hid.
But I promise you the men that slew them
We’ll meet them yet with pike and gun,
And we’ll drive the yeomen in flight before us
When we pay them back on Slievenamon.
The sturdy Frenchman with ships in order
Beneath sharp masts is long at sea;
They’re always saying they will come to Ireland,
And they will set the Irish free.
Light as a blackbird on a green bough swinging
Would be my heart if the French would come –
O the broken ranks and the trumpets ringing
On the sunny side of Slievenamon!
Frank O’Connor
ENGLISH
The Star of Liberty
O’er the vine-cover’d hills and gay regions of FRANCE,
See the day Star of LIBERTY rise;
Thro’ the clouds of detraction, unwearied, advance,
And hold its new course thro’ the skies.
An effulgence so mild, with a lustre so bright,
All Europe, with wonder, surveys;
And from desarts of darkness, and dungeons of night,
Contends for a share of the blaze.
Let BURKE, like a Bat, from its splendour retire,
A splendour too strong for his eyes,
Let pedants and fools his effusions admire,
Intrapt in his cobwebs, like flies:
Shall frenzy and sophistry hope to prevail
Where reason opposes her weight –
When the welfare of millions is hung in the scale,
And the balance yet trembles with fate?
Ah! who ’midst the horrors of night wou’d abide,
That can taste the pure breezes of morn;
Or who, that has drunk of the chrystalline tide,
To the feculent flood would return?
When the bosom of beauty the throbbing heart meets,
Ah! who can the transport decline?
Or who that has tasted of Liberty’s sweets,
The prize, but with life, wou’d resign?
But ’tis over; – high Heav’n the decision approves –
Oppression has struggled in vain:
To the hell she has form’d, superstition removes;
And tyranny bites its own chain.
In the records of time a new æra unfolds, –
All nature exults in its birth –
His creation, benign, the CREATOR beholds,
And gives a new charter to earth.
O catch its high import, ye winds, as ye blow!
O hear it, ye waves, as ye roll!
From regions that feel the sun’s vertical glow,
To the farthest extremes of the pole.
Equal rights – equal laws – to the nations around,
Peace and friendship, its precepts impart –
And wherever the footsteps of man shall be found,
May he bind the DECREE ON HIS HEART.
The Shan Van Vocht
‘Oh! the French are on the say,’
Says the Shan Van Vocht;
‘The French are on the say,’
Says the Shan Van Vocht;
‘Oh! the French are in the Bay,
They’ll be here without delay,
And the Orange will decay,’
Says the Shan Van Vocht.
‘Oh! the French are in the Bay,
They’ll be here by break of day
And the Orange will decay,’
Says the Shan Van Vocht.
‘And where will they have their camp?’
Says the Shan Van Vocht;
‘Where will they have their camp?’
Says the Shan Van Vocht;
‘On the Curragh of Kildare,
The boys they will be there,
With their pikes in good repair,’
Says the Shan Van Vocht.
‘To the Curragh of Kildare
The boys they will repair
And Lord Edward will be there,’
Says the Shan Van Vocht.
‘Then what will the yeomen do?’
Says the Shan Van Vocht;
‘What should the yeomen do?’
Says the Shan Van Vocht;
‘What should the yeomen do,
But throw off the red and blue,
And swear that they’ll be true
To the Shan Van Vocht?
What should the yeomen do,
But throw off the red and blue,
And swear that they’ll be true
To the Shan Van Vocht?’
‘And what colour will they wear?’
Says the Shan Van Vocht;
‘What colour will they wear?’
Says the Shan Van Vocht;
‘What colours should be seen
Where their father’s homes have been
But their own immortal green?’
Says the Shan Van Vocht.
‘And will Ireland then be free?’
Says the Shan Van Vocht;
‘Will Ireland then be free?’
Says the Shan Van Vocht;
‘Yes! Ireland shall be free,
From the centre to the sea;
Then hurrah for Liberty!’
Says the Shan Van Vocht;
‘Yes! Ireland shall be free,
From the centre to the sea;
Then hurrah for Liberty!’
Says the Shan Van Vocht.
The Croppy Boy
’Twas early, early in the spring,
The birds did whistle and sweetly sing,
Changing their notes from tree to tree,
And the song they sang was Old Ireland free.
’Twas early, early in the night,
The yeoman cavalry gave me a fright;
The yeoman cavalry was my downfall
And taken was I by Lord Cornwall.
’Twas in the guard-house that I was laid
And in a parlour that I was tried;
My sentence passed and my courage low
To New Geneva I was forced to go.
As I was passing by my father’s door,
My brother William stood on the floor;
My aged father stood at the door,
And my tender mother her hair she tore.
As I was walking up Wexford Street
My own first cousin I chanced to meet;
My own first cousin did me betray,
And for one bare guinea swore my life away.
My sister Mary heard the express,
She ran downstairs in her morning-dress,
‘Five hundred guineas I will lay down,
To see my brother safe in Wexford Town.’
As I was walking up Wexford Hill,
Who could blame me if I cried my fill?
I looked behind and I looked before,
But my tender mother I could see no more.
As I was mounted on the platform high,
My aged father was standing by;
My aged father did me deny,
And the name he gave me was the Croppy Boy.
It was in Geneva this young man died,
And in Geneva his body lies;
And you good Christians that do pass by
Shed just one tear for the Croppy Boy.
General Wonder
General Wonder in our land,
And General Consternation;
General Gale on Bantry strand,
For General Preservation.
General Rich he shook with awe
At General Insurrection;
General Poor his sword did draw,
With General Disaffection.
General Blood was just at hand,
As General Hoche appeared;
General Woe fled through our land,
And General Want was feared.
General Gale our fears dispersed,
He conquered General Dread;
General Joy each heart has swelled,
As General Hoche has fled.
General Love no blood has shed,
He left us General Ease;
General Horror he has fled,
Let God get General Praise.
To that great General of the skies
That sent us General Gale,
With General Love our voices rise
In one great General Peal.
V
* * *
UNION AND DISSENSION: 1801–80
Thy struggling nation still retains her pride
Thomas Moore, ‘Corruption: An Epistle’
JAMES ORR
(1770–1816)
Donegore Hill
Ephie’s base bairntime, trail-pike brood,
Were arm’d as weel as tribes that stood;
Yet on the battle iika cauffn1
Turn’d his backside, an’ scamper’d aff.
Psalm 78:9
The dew-draps watfn2 the fiels o’ braird,fn3
That soon the war-horse thortur’d;fn4
An faldsfn5 were op’d by monie a herd
Wha lang ere night lay tortur’d;
Whan chielsfn6 wha grudg’d to be sae tax’d
An tyth’d by rack-rent blauth’ry,fn7
Turn’d out en masse, as soon as ax’d –
An uncofn8 throuitherfn9 squath’ryfn10
Were we, that day.
While close-leagu’d crappies rais’d the hoards
O’ pikes, pike-shafts, forks, firelocks,
Some melted lead – some saw’d deal-boards –
Some hade, like hens in byre-neuks;fn11
Wives baket bonnocksfn12 for their men,
Wi’ tears instead o’ water;
An’ lasses made cockades o’ green
For chaps wha us’d to flatter
Their pride ilk day.
A brave man firmly leain’fn13 hame
I ay was proud to think on;
The wife-obeyin’ son o’ shame
Wi’ kindlin e’e I blink on:
‘Peace, peace be wi’ ye! – ah! return
Ere lang and lea the daft anes’ –
‘Please guid,’ quo he, ‘before the morn
In spite o’ a’ our chieftains,
An’ guards, this day.’
But when the pokesfn14 o’ provender
Were slung on ilka shou’der,
Hags, wha to henpeck didna spare,
Loot out the yells the louder. –
Had they, whan blood about their heart
Cauld fear made cake,fn15 an’ crudle,fn16
Ta’en twa rash gills frae Herdman’s quart,
’Twad rous’d the calm, slow puddle
I’ their veins that day.
Now Leaders, laithfn17 to lea the rigs
Whase leash they fear’d was broken
An’ Privates, cursin’ purse-proud prigs,
Wha brought ’em balls to sloken;
Repentant Painites at their pray’rs,
An’ dastards crousely craikin’,fn18
Move on, heroic, to the wars
They meant na to partake in,
By night, or day.
Some fastin’ yet, now strave to eat
The piece, that butter yellow’d;
An’ some, in flocks, drank out cream crocks,
That wives but little valu’d:
Some lettin’ on their burn to mak’,
The rear-guard, goadin’, hasten’d;
Some hunk’rin’ at a lee dyke back,
Boost houghelfn19 on, ere fasten’d
Their breeks, that day.
The truly brave, as journeyin’ on
They pass by weans an’ mithers,
Think on red fiel’s, whare soon may groan,
The husbands, an’ the fathers:
They think how soon thae bonie things
May lose the youths they’re true to;
An’ see the rabble, strife ay brings,
Ravage their mansions, new to
Sicfn20 scenes, that day.
When to the tap o’ DONEGORE
Braid-islan’ corps cam’ postin’,
The red-wud, warpin, wild uproar,
Was like a bee scap castin’;fn21
For ******* ***** took ragweed farms,
(Fears e’e has ay the jaundice)
For Nugent’s red-coats, bright in arms,
An’ rush! the pale-fac’d randiesfn22
Took leg, that day.
The
camp’s brak up. Owre braes, an’ bogs,
The patriots seek their sections;
Arms, ammunition, bread-bags, brogues,
Lye skail’dfn23 in a’ directions:
Ane half, alas! wad fear’d to face
Auld Fogies, faps,fn24 or women;
Tho’ strong, untried, they swore in pride,
‘Moiliefn25 wad dunchfn26 the yeomen,’
Some wiss’d-for day.
Come back, ye dastards! – Can ye ought
Except at your returnin’,
But wives an’ weans stript, cattle hought,
An’ cots, an’ claughinsfn27 burnin’?
Na, haste ye hame; ye ken ye’ll ’scape,
’Cause martial worth ye’re clear o’;
The nine-tail’d cat, or choakin’ rape,
Is maistly for some hero,
On sic a day.
Saunt Paul (auld Knacksie!)fn28 counsels weel –
Pope, somewhere, does the samen,
That, ‘first o’ a’, folk sud themsel’s
Impartially examine’;
Gif that’s na done, whate’er ilkfn29 lounfn30
May swear to, never swith’rin’,fn31
In ev’ry pinch, he’ll basely flinch –
‘Guidbye to ye, my brethren,’
He’ll cry, that day.
The leuksfn32 o’ wheensfn33 wha stay’d behin’,
Were mark’d by monie a passion;
By dread to staun, by shame to rin,
By scorn an’ consternation:
Wi’ spite they curse, wi’ grief they pray,
Now move, now pause a bit ay;
‘’Tis mad to gang, ’tis death to stay,’
An unco dolefu’ ditty,
On sic a day.
What joy at hame our entrance gave!
‘Guid God! is’t you? fair fa’ ye! –
’Twas wise, tho’ fools may ca’t no’ brave,
To rin or e’er they saw ye.’ –
‘Aye wife, that’s true without dispute,
But lest sauntsfn34 fail in Zion,
I’ll hae to swear *** forc’d me out;
Better he swing than I, on
Some hangin’ day.’
My story’s done, an’ to be free,
Owre sair,fn35 I doubt,fn36 they smarted,
Wha wad hae bell’d the cat awee,
Had they no been deserted:
Thae warks pat skill, tho’ in my min’
That ne’er was in’t before, mon,
In tryin’ times, maist folk, you’ll fin’,
Will act like Donegore men
On onie day.