For mere impatience? Of all men that live,
Such clerics are the most conservative;
Perusing somewhat bitterly, no less,
Their map and daily roll-call of distress,
When scores around them, with the name of land,
Staring on hungry wife and children stand,
Unused by beggars’ art to seek and shift,
And dreading from their only hold to drift.
from Chapter VII: Tenants at Will
But Pigot’s ruddy cheek and sharp black eye
Display no softer hint, as months go by;
And now the trembling tenants whisper sad, –
‘O Queen of Heaven! and would he be so bad?
And will they send us begging, young and old,
And seize the fields, and make the firesides cold,
Where, God’s our witness, poor enough we live,
But still content with what the Lord may give,
Our hearts with love and veneration tied
To where our fathers’ fathers lived and died?’
Or else more fiercely, – ‘’Tis our native land!
But cruel tyrants have us at command,
To let us grow, if best it serves their needs,
Or tear and cast us forth like poison-weeds.
The law’s their implement: who make the law?
The rich men for the rich, and leave no flaw.
And what’s the poor man’s part? to drudge and sweat
For food and shelter. Does the poor man get
Bare food and shelter? – praties, cabin, rags.
Now fling him out to famish – or he drags
His weary body to that gaol and grave
The Poorhouse; – he must live and die a slave,
Toil, starve, and suffer, creep, and crouch, and crawl,
Be cursed and trampled, and submit to all,
Without one murmur, one rebellious trace
Among the marks of misery on his face!’
Each tongue around old Oona feared to tell
The great misfortune, worse than yet befell
In all her length of journey. When they tried
To move her – ‘Would they take her life?’ she cried;
At which it rested, hap what happen might.
And scarcely one, in truth, prepared for flight;
Contempt of prudence, anger, and despair,
And vis inertiæ, kept them as they were;
‘God and the world will see it,’ – so they said,
‘Let all the wrong be on the doer’s head!’
In early morning twilight, raw and chill,
Damp vapours brooding on the barren hill,
Through miles of mire in steady grave array
Threescore well-arm’d police pursue their way;
Each tall and bearded man a rifle swings,
And under each greatcoat a bayonet clings;
The Sheriff on his sturdy cob astride
Talks with the Chief, who marches by their side,
And, creeping on behind them, Paudeen Dhu
Pretends his needful duty much to rue.
Six big-boned labourers, clad in common frieze,
Walk in the midst, the Sheriff’s staunch allies;
Six crow-bar-men, from distant county brought, –
Orange, and glorying in their work, ’tis thought,
But wrongly, – churls of Catholics are they,
And merely hired at half-a-crown a day.
The Hamlet clustering on its hill is seen,
A score of petty homesteads, dark and mean;
Poor always, not despairing until now;
Long used, as well as poverty knows how,
With life’s oppressive trifles to contend.
This day will bring its history to an end.
Moveless and grim against the cottage walls
Lean a few silent men: but some one calls
Far off; and then a child ‘without a stitch’
Runs out of doors, flies back with piercing screech,
And soon from house to house is heard the cry
Of female sorrow, swelling loud and high,
Which makes the men blaspheme between their teeth.
Meanwhile, o’er fence and watery field beneath,
The little army moves through drizzling rain;
A ‘Crowbar’ leads the Sheriff’s nag; the lane
Is entered, and their plashing tramp draws near;
One instant, outcry holds its breath to hear;
‘Halt!’ – at the doors they form in double line,
And ranks of polished rifles wetly shine.
The Sheriff’s painful duty must be done;
He begs for quiet – and the work’s begun.
The strong stand ready; now appear the rest,
Girl, matron, grandsire, baby on the breast,
And Rosy’s thin face on a pallet borne;
A motley concourse, feeble and forlorn.
One old man, tears upon his wrinkled cheek,
Stands trembling on a threshold, tries to speak,
But, in defect of any word for this,
Mutely upon the doorpost prints a kiss,
Then passes out for ever. Through the crowd
The children run bewildered, wailing loud;
Where needed most, the men combine their aid;
And, last of all, is Oona forth conveyed,
Reclined in her accustomed strawen chair,
Her aged eyelids closed, her thick white hair
Escaping from her cap; she feels the chill,
Looks round and murmurs, then again is still.
Now bring the remnants of each household fire;
On the wet ground the hissing coals expire;
And Paudeen Dhu, with meekly dismal face,
Receives the full possession of the place.
from Chapter IX: The Fair
Crowds push through Lisnamoy, shop, street, and lane,
Archway, and yard, corn-store, and butter-crane.
Say, as we push, could anywhere be found
A Town more ugly, ev’n on Irish ground? –
With dwellings meanly low or meanly tall,
With ragged roads, and harsh straight workhouse wall,
With foul decrepit huts, and here and there
A roof half-stripped and smoky rafters bare;
With churches that on rival mounts encamp,
One praised for neatness, one admired for pomp;
This, which combines the gaudy and the mean,
(Alas! the white old chapel on its green)
With misplaced ornament that leads your eye
To note the baldness, like a wig awry;
That, less prodigious, odious not the less,
All prim and trim in tidy ugliness,
A square box with a tall box at the end,
While through the wall a stove-pipe’s arms extend.
What more? these gates are wide, the passing prayer
Finds when it will a solemn welcome there;
Those gates are locked, the sexton lets you through,
And shows for sixpence every empty pew;
Here climbs a gilded cross above the roof,
There turns a glittering weathercock aloof;
Here, every day, the watchful power of Rome,
The English rite on Sundays there at home.
Clean police-barrack perched a-top the hill,
At foot the dusty slating of a mill,
Town hall betwixt, with many a broken pane,
A squat Wesleyan chapel down a lane,
Make up the total – which, though you despise,
Kindles admiring awe in rustic eyes.
Mud hovels fringe the ‘Fair-green’ of this town,
A spot misnamed, at every season brown,
O’erspread with countless man and beast today,
Which bellow, squeak, and shout, bleat, bray, and neigh.
The ‘jobbers’ th
ere, each more or less a rogue,
Noisy or smooth, with each his various brogue,
Cool wiry Dublin, Connaught’s golden mouth,
Blunt Northern, plaintive sing-song of the South,
Feel cattle’s ribs, or jaws of horses try
For truth, since men’s are very sure to lie,
And shun with parrying blow and practised heed
The rushing horns, the wildly prancing steed.
The moistened penny greets with sounding smack
The rugged palm, which smites the greeting back;
Oaths fly, the bargain like a quarrel burns,
And oft the buyer turns, and oft returns;
Now mingle Sassenach and Gaelic tongue;
On either side are slow concessions wrung;
An anxious audience interfere; at last
The sale is closed, and whiskey binds it fast,
In cave of quilting upon oziers bent,
With many an ancient patch and breezy rent.
In Snow
O English mother, in the ruddy glow
Hugging your baby closer when outside
You see the silent, soft, and cruel snow
Falling again, and think what ills betide
Unsheltered creatures – your sad thoughts may go
Where War and Winter now, two spectre-wolves,
Hunt in the freezing vapour that involves
Those Asian peaks of ice and gulfs below.
Does this young soldier heed the snow that fills
His mouth and open eyes? or mind, in truth,
Tonight, his mother’s parting syllables?
Ha! Is’t a red coat? – Merely blood. Keep ruth
For others; this is but an Afghan youth
Shot by the stranger on his native hills.
from Blackberries
Not men and women in an Irish street,
But Catholics and Protestants you meet.
(…)
The Poet launched a stately fleet: it sank.
His fame was rescued on a single plank.
JANE FRANCESCA ELGEE (LADY WILDE)
(1826–96)
A Supplication
De profundis clamavi ad te Domine
By our looks of mute despair,
By the sighs that rend the air,
From lips too faint to utter prayer,
Kyrie Eleison.
By the last groans of our dying,
Echoed by the cold wind’s sighing
On the wayside as they’re lying,
Kyrie Eleison.
By our fever-stricken bands
Lifting up their wasted hands
For bread throughout the far-off lands,
Kyrie Eleison.
Miserable outcasts we,
Pariahs of humanity,
Shunned by all where’er we flee,
Kyrie Eleison.
For our dead no bell is ringing,
Round their forms no shroud is clinging,
Save the rank grass newly springing,
Kyrie Eleison.
Golden harvests we are reaping,
With golden grain our barns heaping,
But for us our bread is weeping,
Kyrie Eleison.
Death-devoted in our home,
Sad we cross the salt sea’s foam,
But death we bring where’er we roam,
Kyrie Eleison.
Whereso’er our steps are led,
They can track us by our dead,
Lying on their cold earth bed,
Kyrie Eleison.
We have sinned – in vain each warning –
Brother lived his brother scorning,
Now in ashes see us mourning,
Kyrie Eleison.
Heeding not our country’s state,
Trodden down and desolate,
While we strove in senseless hate,
Kyrie Eleison.
We have sinned, but holier zeal
May we Christian patriots feel,
Oh! for our dear country’s weal,
Kyrie Eleison.
Let us lift our streaming eyes
To God’s throne above the skies,
He will hear our anguish cries,
Kyrie Eleison.
Kneel beside me, oh! my brother,
Let us pray each with the other,
For Ireland, our mourning mother,
Kyrie Eleison.
JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY
(1844–90)
A White Rose
The red rose whispers of passion,
And the white rose breathes of love;
Oh, the red rose is a falcon,
And the white rose is a dove.
But I send you a cream-white rosebud
With a flush on its petal tips;
For the love that is purest and sweetest
Has a kiss of desire on the lips.
VI
* * *
REVIVAL: 1881–1921
I see her in those coming days,
Still young, still gay; her unbound hair
Crowned with a crown of starlike rays,
Serenely fair.
Emily Lawless, ‘A Retort’
SAMUEL FERGUSON
At the Polo-Ground
6th May 1882
Not yet in sight. ’Twere well to step aside,
Beyond the common eye-shot, till he comes.
He – I’ve no quarrel under heaven with him:
I’d rather it were Forster; rather still
One higher up than either; but since Fate
Or Chance has so determined, be it he.
How cool I feel; and all my wits about
And vigilant; and such a work in hand!
Yes: loitering here, unoccupied, may draw
Remark and question. How came such a one there?
Oh; I’ve strolled out to see the polo-players:
I’ll step across to them; but keep an eye
On who comes up the highway.
Here I am
Beside the hurdles fencing off the ground
They’ve taken from us who have the right to it,
For these select young gentry and their sport.
Curse them! I would they all might break their necks!
Young fops and lordlings of the garrison
Kept up by England here to keep us down:
All rich young fellows not content to own
Their chargers, hacks, and hunters for the field,
But also special ponies for their game;
And doubtless, as they dash along, regard
Us who stand outside as a beggarly crew. –
’Tis half-past six. Not yet. No, that’s not he. –
Well, but ’tis pretty, sure, to see them stoop
And take the ball, full gallop; and when I
In gown and cocked hat once drove up Cork Hill,
Perhaps myself have eyed the common crowd,
Lining the footway, with a similar sense
Of higher station, just as these do me,
And as the man next door no doubt does them.
’Tis very sure that grades and differences
Of rich and poor and small men and grandees
Have all along existed, and still will, –
Though many a man has risen and thriven well
By promising the Poor to make them rich
By taking from the Rich their overplus,
And putting all on a level: beggars all.
Yet still the old seize-ace comes round again;
And though my friends upon the pathway there –
No. Not he neither. That’s a taller man –
Look for a general scramble and divide,
Such a partition, were it possible,
Would not by any means suit me. My share
Already earned and saved would equal ten
Such millionth quotients and sub-multiples.
No: they may follow Davitt. ’Tis Parnell
And p
roperty – in proper hands – will win.
But, say the Mob’s the Master; and who knows
But some o’ these days the ruffians may have votes
As good as mine or his, and pass their Act
For every man his share, and equal all?
No doubt they’d have a slice from me. What then?
I’m not afraid. I’ll float. Allow the scums
Rise to the surface, something rises too
Not scum, but Carey; and will yet rise higher.
No place too high but he may look for it.
Member for Dublin, Speaker, President,
Lord Mayor for life – why not? One gentleman,
Who when he comes to deal with this day’s work –
No: not in sight. That man is not so tall –
Will find, to his surprise, a stronger hand
Than his controls the rudder, sat three years
And hangs his medal on the sheriff’s chain.
Yes; say Lord Mayor: my liveries green and gold,
My secretary with me in my coach,
And chaplain duly seated by my side.
My boy shall have his hack, and pony too,
And play at polo with the best of them;
Such as will then be best. He need not blush
To think his father was a bricklayer;
For laying bricks is work as reputable
As filling noggins or appraising pawns,
Or other offices of those designed
For fathers of our Dublin swells to be.
’Tis twenty minutes now to seven o’clock.
What if he should not come at all? ’Twere then
Another – oh – fiasco as they call it,
Not pleasant to repeat to Number One,
But, for myself, perhaps not wholly bad.
For, if he comes, there will be consequences
Will make a stir; and in that stir my name
May come in play – well, one must run some risk
Who takes a lead and keeps and thrives by it
As I have done. But sure the risk is small.
I know those cut-throats on the pathway there
May be relied on. Theirs is work that shuts
The door against approval of both sorts.
But he who drives them, I’ve remarked in him
A flighty indecision in the eye,
Such as, indeed, had I a looking-glass,
I might perhaps discover in my own
When thoughts have crossed me how I should behave
In this or that conjuncture of the affair.
The Penguin Book of Irish Poetry Page 48