The Penguin Book of Irish Poetry
Page 82
And each abode is
Snug and commodious,
With pigs melodious,
In their straw-built sty.
’Tis there the turf is,
And lots of Murphies,
Dead sprats and herrings,
And oyster-shells;
Nor any lack, oh!
Of good tobacco,
Though what is smuggled
By far excels.
There are ships from Cadiz,
And from Barbadoes,
But the leading trade is
In whisky-punch;
And you may go in
Where one Molly Bowen
Keeps a nate hotel
For a quiet lunch.
But land or deck on,
You may safely reckon,
Whatsoever country
You come hither from,
On an invitation
To a jollification
With a parish priest,
That’s called ‘Father Tom’.
Of ships there’s one fixt
For lodging convicts,
A floating ‘stone jug’
Of amazing bulk;
The hake and salmon,
Playing at bagammon,
Swim for divarsion
All round this hulk;
There ‘Saxon’ jailers
Keep brave repailers,
Who soon with sailors
Must anchor weigh;
From th’ em’rald island,
Ne’er to see dry land,
Until they spy land
In sweet Bot’ny Bay.
CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER
(1818–95)
All Things Bright and Beautiful
All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small,
All things wise and wonderful,
The Lord God made them all.
Each little flower that opens,
Each little bird that sings,
He made their glowing colours,
He made their tiny wings.
The rich man in his castle,
The poor man at his gate,
God made them, high or lowly,
And ordered their estate.
The purple-headed mountain,
The river running by,
The sunset and the morning,
That brightens up the sky;
The cold wind in the winter,
The pleasant summer sun,
The ripe fruits in the garden –
He made them every one;
The tall trees in the greenwood,
The meadows where we play,
The rushes by the water,
We gather every day:
He gave us eyes to see them,
And lips that we might tell,
How great is God Almighty,
Who has made all things well.
Once in Royal David’s City
Once in royal David’s city
Stood a lowly cattle shed,
Where a Mother laid her Baby
In a manger for His bed.
Mary was that Mother mild,
Jesus Christ her little Child.
He came down to earth from Heaven
Who is God and Lord of all,
And His shelter was a stable,
And His cradle was a stall.
With the poor, and mean, and lowly,
Lived on earth our Saviour Holy.
And, through all His wondrous Childhood,
He would honour and obey,
Love, and watch the lowly Maiden,
In whose gentle arms He lay.
Christian children all must be
Mild, obedient, good as He.
For He is our childhood’s pattern,
Day by day like us He grew,
He was little, weak and helpless,
Tears and smiles like us He knew.
And He feeleth for our sadness,
And He shareth in our gladness.
And our eyes at last shall see Him,
Through His own redeeming love,
For that Child so dear and gentle
Is our Lord in Heaven above;
And He leads His children on
To the place where He is gone.
Not in that poor lowly stable,
With the oxen standing by,
We shall see Him, but in Heaven,
Set at God’s right hand on high;
When like stars His children crowned
All in white shall wait around.
ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES
Herring is King
Let all the fish that swim the sea,
Salmon and turbot, cod and ling,
Bow down the head, and bend the knee
To herring, their king! to herring, their king!
Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin’,
’Tis we have brought the summer in.
The sun sank down so round and red
Upon the bay, upon the bay;
The sails shook idle overhead,
Becalmed we lay, becalmed we lay;
Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin’,
’Tis we have brought the summer in.
Till Shawn, The Eagle, dropped on deck –
The bright-eyed boy, the bright-eyed boy;
’Tis he has spied your silver track,
Herring, our joy – herring, our joy;
Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin’,
’Tis we have brought the summer in.
It was in with the sails and away to shore,
With the rise and swing, the rise and swing
Of two stout lads at each smoking oar,
After herring, our king – herring, our king;
Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin’,
’Tis we have brought the summer in.
The Manx and the Cornish raised the shout,
And joined the chase, and joined the chase;
But their fleets they fouled as they went about,
And we won the race, we won the race;
Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin’,
’Tis we have brought the summer in.
For we turned and faced you full to land,
Down the góleen long, the góleen long,
And, after you, slipped from strand to strand
Our nets so strong, our nets so strong;
Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin’,
’Tis we have brought the summer in.
Then we called to our sweethearts and our wives,
‘Come welcome us home, welcome us home!’
Till they ran to meet us for their lives
Into the foam, into the foam;
Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin’,
’ Tis we have brought the summer in.
O the kissing of hands and waving of caps
From girl and boy, from girl and boy,
While you leapt by scores in the lasses’ laps,
Herring, our pride and joy;
Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin’,
’ Tis we have brought the summer in.
JOHNNY TOM GLEESON
(1853–1924)
The Bould Thady Quill
Ye maids of Duhallow who are anxious for courtin’
A word of advice I will give unto ye,
Go down to Banteer to the athletic sporting,
And hand in your names to the club committee.
But do not commence any stretch of your progress
Till a carriage you see coming over the hill
And down through the valleys and hills of Kilcorney,
With that Muskerry sportsman the bould Thady Quill.
For ramblin’, for rovin’, for football or courtin’,
For drinkin’ black porter as fast as you’d fill,
In all your days rovin’, you’d find none so jovial,
As our Muskerry sportsman the Bould Thady Quill.
Thady was famous in all sorts of places;
At the
athletic meeting held out in Cloghroe,
He won the long jump without throwing off his braces,
Going fifty-four feet from the heel to the toe.
At the put of the shot was a Dublin man foremost,
But Thady out-reached and exceeded him still,
Around the whole field rang the wild ringing chorus,
‘Here’s luck to our hero, the Bould Thady Quill.’
For ramblin’, etc.
At the great hurling match between Cork and Tipperary,
’Twas played in the park by the banks of the Lee,
Our own darling boys were afraid of being beaten,
So they sent for bould Thady to Ballinagree.
He hurled up the ball left and right in their faces,
And showed those Tipperary boys learning and skill,
If they came in his way, sure he surely would brain them,
And the papers were full of the praise of Thady Quill.
For ramblin’, etc.
At the Cork exhibition there was a fine lady,
Whose fortune exceeded a million or more,
But a bad constitution had ruined her completely,
And medical treatment had failed o’er and o’er,
‘Oh Mamma,’ said she, ‘I know what’ll aise me,
And all me diseases most certainly kill,
Give over your doctors, your potions and treatment,
I’d rather one squeeze out of Bould Thady Quill.’
For ramblin’, etc.
PERCY FRENCH
Shlathery’s Mounted Fut
You’ve heard o’ Julius Cæsar, an’ the great Napoleon, too,
An’ how the Cork Militia beat the Turks at Waterloo;
But there’s a page of glory that, as yet, remains uncut,
An’ that’s the Martial story o’ the Shlathery’s Mounted Fut.
This gallant corps was organized by Shlathery’s eldest son,
A noble-minded poacher, wid a double-breasted gun;
An’ many a head was broken, aye, an’ many an eye was shut,
Whin practisin’ manœuvres in the Shlathery’s Mounted Fut.
CHORUS
An’ down from the mountains came the squadrons an’ platoons,
Four-an’-twinty fightin’ min, an’ a couple o’ sthout gossoons,
An’ whin we marched behind the dhrum to patriotic tunes,
We felt that fame would gild the name o’ Shlathery’s Light Dhragoons.
Well, first we reconnoithered round O’Sullivan’s Shebeen –
It used to be ‘The Shop House’ but we call it ‘The Canteen’:
But there we saw a notice which the bravest heart unnerved –
‘All liquor must be settled for before the dhrink is served.’
So on we marched, but soon again each warrior’s heart grew pale,
For risin’ high in front o’ us we saw the County Jail;
An’ whin the army faced about, ’twas just in time to find
A couple o’ policemin had surrounded us behind.
CHORUS
Still, from the mountains came the squadrons and platoons,
Four-an’-twinty fightin’ min, an’ a couple o’ sthout gossoons;
Says Shlathery, ‘We must circumvent these bludgeonin’ bosthoons,
Or else it sames they’ll take the names o’ Shlathery’s Light Dhragoons.
‘We’ll cross the ditch,’ our leader cried, ‘an’ take the foe in flank,’
But yells of consthernation here arose from every rank,
For posted high upon a tree we very plainly saw,
‘Threspassers prosecuted, in accordance wid’ the law.’
‘We’re foiled!’ exclaimed bowld Shlathery, ‘here ends our grand campaign,
’Tis merely throwin’ life away to face that mearin’ dhrain,
I’m not as bold as lions, but I’m braver nor a hin,
An’ he that fights and runs away will live to fight agin.’
CHORUS
An’ back to the mountains went the squadrons and platoons,
Four-an’-twinty fightin’ min an’ a couple o’ sthout gossoons;
The band was playing cautiously their patriotic tunes;
To sing the fame, if rather lame o’ Shlathery’s Light Dhragoons.
JAMES JOYCE
from Finnegans Wake
The Ballad of Persse O’Reilly
Have you heard of one Humpty Dumpty
How he fell with a roll and a rumble
And curled up like Lord Olofa Crumple
By the butt of the Magazine Wall,
(Chorus) Of the Magazine Wall,
Hump, helmet and all?
He was one time our King of the Castle
Now he’s kicked about like a rotten old parsnip.
And from Green street he’ll be sent by order of His Worship
To the penal jail of Mountjoy
(Chorus) To the jail of Mountjoy!
Jail him and joy.
He was fafafather of all schemes for to bother us
Slow coaches and immaculate contraceptives for the populace,
Mare’s milk for the sick, seven dry Sundays a week,
Openair love and religion’s reform,
(Chorus) And religious reform,
Hideous in form.
Arrah, why, says you, couldn’t he manage it?
I’ll go bail, my fine dairyman darling,
Like the bumping bull of the Cassidys
All your butter is in your horns.
(Chorus) His butter is in his horns.
Butter his horns!
(Repeat) Hurrah there, Hosty, frosty Hosty, change that shirt on ye,
Rhyme the rann, the king of all ranns!
Balbaccio, balbuccio!
We had chaw chaw chops, chairs, chewing gum, the chicken-pox and china chambers
Universally provided by this soffsoaping salesman.
Small wonder He’ll Cheat E’erawan our local lads nicknamed him
When Chimpden first took the floor
(Chorus) With his bucketshop store
Down Bargainweg, Lower.
So snug he was in his hotel premises sumptuous
But soon we’ll bonfire all his trash, tricks and trumpery
And ’tis short till sheriff Clancy’ll be winding up his unlimited company
With the bailiff’s bom at the door,
(Chorus) Bimbam at the door.
Then he’ll bum no more.
Sweet bad luck on the waves washed to our island
The hooker of that hammerfast viking
And Gall’s curse on the day when Eblana bay
Saw his black and tan man-o’-war.
(Chorus) Saw his man-o’-war.
On the harbour bar.
Where from? roars Poolbeg. Cookingha’pence, he bawls
Donnez-moi scampitle, wick an wipin’fampiny
Fingal Mac Oscar Onesine Bargearse Boniface
Thok’s min gammelhole Norveegickers moniker
Og as ay are at gammelhore Norveegickers cod.
(Chorus) A Norwegian camel old cod.
He is, begod.
Lift it, Hosty, lift it, ye devil ye! up with the rann, the rhyming rann!
It was during some fresh water garden pumping
Or, according to the Nursing Mirror, while admiring the monkeys
That our heavyweight heathen Humpharey
Made bold a maid to woo
(Chorus) Woohoo, what’ll she doo!
The general lost her maidenloo!
He ought to blush for himself, the old hayheaded philosopher,
For to go and shove himself that way on top of her.
Begob, he’s the crux of the catalogue
Of our antediluvial zoo,
(Chorus) Messrs. Billing and Coo.
Noah’s larks, good as noo.
He was joulting by Wellinton’s monument
Our rotorious hippopopotamuns
When some b
ugger let down the backtrap of the omnibus
And he caught his death of fusiliers,
(Chorus) With his rent in his rears.
Give him six years.
’Tis sore pity for his innocent poor children
But look out for his missus legitimate!
When that frew gets a grip of old Earwicker
Won’t there be earwigs on the green?
(Chorus) Big earwigs on the green,
The largest ever you seen.
Suffoclose! Shikespower! Seudodanto! Anonymoses!
Then we’ll have a free trade Gaels’ band and mass meeting
For to sod the brave son of Scandiknavery.
And we’ll bury him down in Oxmanstown
Along with the devil and Danes,
(Chorus) With the deaf and dumb Danes,
And all their remains.
And not all the king’s men nor his horses
Will resurrect his corpus
For there’s no true spell in Connacht or hell
(bis) That’s able to raise a Cain.
LOUIS MACNEICE
The Streets of Laredo
O early one morning I walked out like Agag,
Early one morning to walk through the fire
Dodging the pythons that leaked on the pavements
With tinkle of glasses and tangle of wire;
When grimed to the eyebrows I met an old fireman
Who looked at me wryly and thus did he say:
‘The streets of Laredo are closed to all traffic,
We won’t never master this joker today.
‘O hold the branch tightly and wield the axe brightly,
The bank is in powder, the banker’s in hell,
But loot is still free on the streets of Laredo
And when we drive home we drive home on the bell.’
Then out from a doorway there sidled a cockney,
A rocking-chair rocking on top of his head:
‘O fifty-five years I been feathering my love-nest
And look at it now – why, you’d sooner be dead.’
At which there arose from a wound in the asphalt,
His big wig a-smoulder, Sir Christopher Wren
Saying: ‘Let them make hay of the streets of Laredo;
When your ground-rents expire I will build them again.’
Then twangling their bibles with wrath in their nostrils
From Bonehill Fields came Bunyan and Blake:
‘Laredo the golden is fallen, is fallen;
Your flame shall not quench nor your thirst shall not slake.’