Crystalline crystal and sparkle of blue in green eyes,
Sweetness of sweetness in her unembittered young voice
And a high colour dawning behind the pearl of her face.
Ringlets and ringlets, a curl in every tress
Of her fair hair trailing and brushing the dew on the grass;
And a gem from her birthplace far in the high universe
Outglittering glass and gracing the groove of her breasts.
News that was secret she whispered to soothe her aloneness,
News of one due to return and reclaim his true place,
News of the ruin of those who had cast him in darkness,
News that was awesome, too awesome to utter in verse.
My head got lighter and lighter but still approached her,
Enthralled by her thraldom, helplessly held and bewildered,
Choking and calling Christ’s name: then she fled in a shimmer
To Leachra Fort where only the glamoured can enter.
I hurtled and hurled myself madly following after
Over keshes and marshes and mosses and treacherous moors
And arrived at that stronghold unsure about how I had got there,
That earthwork of earth the orders of magic once reared.
A gang of thick louts were shouting loud insults and jeering
And a curly-haired coven in fits of sniggers and sneers:
Next thing I was taken and cruelly shackled in fetters
As the breasts of the maiden were groped by a thick-witted boor.
I tried then as hard as I could to make her hear truth,
How wrong she was to be linked to that lazarous swine
When the pride of the pure Scottish stock, a prince of the blood,
Was ardent and eager to wed her and make her his bride.
When she heard me, she started to weep, but pride was the cause
Of those tears that came wetting her cheeks and shone in her eyes;
Then she sent me a guard to guide me out of the fortress,
Who’d appeared to me, lone on the road, a brightening brightness.
*
Calamity, shock, collapse, heartbreak and grief
To think of her sweetness, her beauty, her mildness, her life
Defiled at the hands of a hornmaster sprung from riff-raff,
And no hope of redress till the lions ride back on the wave.
AODHÁGAN Ó RATHAILLE
translated by Seamus Heaney
To a very young Gentleman at a Dancing-School
So when the Queen of Love rose from the seas,
Divinely fair in such a blest amaze,
The enamoured watery deities did gaze,
As we when charming Flammin did surprise,
More heavenly bright, our whole seraglio’s eyes,
And not a nymph her wonder could disguise,
Whilst with a lovely pride the graceful boy
Passed all the ladies, like a sultan, by,
Only he looked more absolute and coy.
When with a haughty air he did advance
To lead out some transported she to dance,
He gave his hand as carelessly as chance,
Attended with a universal sigh.
On her each beauty cast a jealous eye
And quite fell out with guiltless destiny.
ELIZABETH SINGER
A New Song of New Similes
My passion is as mustard strong;
I sit all sober sad;
Drunk as a piper all day long,
Or like a March-hare mad.
Round as a hoop the bumpers flow;
I drink, yet can’t forget her;
For, though as drunk as David’s sow,
I love her still the better.
Pert as a pear-monger I’d be,
If Molly were but kind;
Cool as a cucumber could see
The rest of womankind.
Like a stuck pig I gaping stare,
And eye her o’er and o’er;
Lean as a rake with sighs and care,
Sleek as a mouse before.
Plump as a partridge was I known,
And soft as silk my skin,
My cheeks as fat as butter grown;
But as a groat now thin!
I, melancholy as a cat,
And kept awake to weep;
But she, insensible of that,
Sound as a top can sleep.
Hard is her heart as flint or stone,
She laughs to see me pale;
And merry as a grig is grown,
And brisk as bottled ale.
The God of Love at her approach
Is busy as a bee;
Hearts, sound as any bell or roach,
Are smit and sigh like me.
Ay me! as thick as hops or hail,
The fine men crowd about her;
But soon as dead as a door nail
Shall I be, if without her.
Straight as my leg her shape appears,
O were we join’d together!
My heart would be scot-free from cares,
And lighter than a feather.
As fine as fivepence is her mien,
No drum was ever tighter;
Her glance is as the razor keen,
And not the sun is brighter.
As soft as pap her kisses are,
Methinks I taste them yet;
Brown as a berry is her hair,
Her eyes as black as jet:
As smooth as glass, as white as curds,
Her pretty hand invites;
Sharp as a needle are her words;
Her wit, like pepper, bites:
Brisk as a body-louse she trips,
Clean as a penny drest;
Sweet as a rose her breath and lips,
Round as the globe her breast.
Full as an egg was I with glee;
And happy as a king.
Good Lord! how all men envy’d me!
She lov’d like any thing.
But, false as hell! she, like the wind,
Chang’d, as her sex must do;
Though seeming as the turtle kind,
And like the gospel true.
If I and Molly could agree,
Let who would take Peru!
Great as an emperor should I be,
And richer than a Jew.
Till you grow tender as a chick,
I’m dull as any post;
Let us, like burs, together stick,
And warm as any toast.
You’ll know me truer than a dye;
And wish me better speed;
Flat as a flounder when I lie,
And as a herring dead.
Sure as a gun, she’ll drop a tear,
And sigh, perhaps, and wish,
When I am rotten as a pear,
And mute as any fish.
JOHN GAY
Ode on Solitude
Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air,
In his own ground.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.
Blest, who can unconcernedly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,
Sound sleep by night; study and ease,
Together mixed; sweet recreation;
And innocence, which most does please,
With meditation.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.
ALEXANDER POPE
from Song of Summer
to the air ‘Through the Wood Laddie’
Month of plants and
of honey,
warm, with grasses and shoots,
month of buds and of leafage,
rushes, flowers that are lovely,
wasps, bees and berries,
mellow mists, heavy dews,
like spangles of diamonds,
a sparkling cover for earth.
*
Lithe brisk fresh-water salmon,
lively, leaping the stones;
bunched, white-bellied, scaly,
fin-tail-flashing, red spot;
speckled skin’s brilliant hue
lit with flashes of silver;
with curved gob at the ready,
catching insects with guile.
May, with soft showers and sunshine,
meadows, grass-fields I love,
milky, whey-white and creamy,
frothing, whisked up in pails,
time for crowdie and milk-curds,
time for firkins and kits,
lambs, goat-kids and roe-deer,
bucks, a rich time for flocks.
ALEXANDER MACDONALD
translated by Derick Thomson
Wedlock: A Satire
Thou tyrant, whom I will not name,
Whom Heaven and Hell alike disclaim,
Abhorred and shunned, for different ends,
By angels, Jesuits, beasts and fiends,
What terms to curse thee shall I find,
Thou plague peculiar to mankind?
Oh may my verse excel in spite
The wiliest, wittiest imps of night!
Then lend me for a while your rage,
You maidens old and matrons sage,
So may my terms in railing seem
As vile and hateful as my theme.
Eternal foe to soft desires,
Inflamer of forbidden fires,
Thou source of discord, pain and care,
Thou sure forerunner of despair,
Thou scorpion with a double face,
Thou lawful plague of human race,
Thou bane of freedom, ease and mirth,
Thou deep damnation upon earth,
Thou serpent which the angels fly,
Thou monster whom the beasts defy,
Whom wily Jesuits sneer at too,
And Satan, let him have his due,
Was never so confirmed a dunce
To risk damnation more than once.
That wretch, if such a wretch there be,
Who hopes for happiness from thee,
May search successfully as well
For truth in whores and ease in Hell.
MEHETABEL WRIGHT
On Inclosures
’Tis bad enough in man or woman
To steal a goose from off a common;
But surely he’s without excuse
Who steals the common from the goose.
ANON
The Mother’s Lament for Her Child
When they came looking for trouble I bared my body
Hoping to appeal to them. Child of the branches,
You smiled at your mother and then at your enemies
And chuckled before they wrenched you from my arms.
When the spear pierced your chest I registered the pain
And watched my own blood spurting. Suicidal now
I struggled with them, happy to die in the skirmish
And lie with you and our friends in unmarked graves.
They tied me to a tree and forced me to witness
Your death-throes, child of the tree of my heart and lungs,
Child of my crucifixion tree, child of the branches,
And then they stuck your screams on the end of a pike.
PEADAR Ó DOIRNÍN
translated by Michael Longley
There’s Nae Luck about the House
And are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he’s weel?
Is this a time to think o’ wark?
Ye Jauds, fling by your wheel.
Is this a time to think o’ wark,
When Colin’s at the door?
Rax me my cloak, I’ll to the quay,
And see him come ashore.
For there’s nae luck about the house,
There’s nae luck at a’
There’s little pleasure in the house,
When our gudeman’s awa’.
And gie to me my bigonet,
My bishop-satin gown;
For I maun tell the baillie’s wife
That Colin’s come to town.
My turkey slippers maun gae on.
My hose o’ pearl blue;
It’s a’ to please my ain gudeman,
For he’s’ baith leal and true.
Rise up and mak a dean fireside,
Put on the muckle pot;
Gle little Kate her Sunday gown
And Jock his button coat;
And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their hose as white as snaw;
It’s a’ to please my ain gudeman.
For he’s been lang awa’.
Since Colin’s weel, I’m weel content,
I hae nae mair to crave;
Could I but live to mak him blest,
I’m blest aboon the lave;
And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?
I’m downricht dizzy wi’ the thocht,
In troth I’m like to greet.
There’s twa fat hens upo’ the bauk,
They’ve fed this month and mair,
Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare;
And spread the table neat and clean,
Gar ilka thing look braw;
For wha can tell how Colin fared
When he was far awa’?
Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,
His breath like caller air;
His very foot has music in’t
As he comes up the stair,
And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?
I’m downricht dizzy wi’ the thocht,
In troth I’m like to greet
For there’s nae luck about the house,
There’s nae luck at a’
There’s little pleasure in the house,
When our gudeman’s awa’.
JEAN ADAM
Satire upon the Heads; or, Never a Barrel the Better Herring
O Cambridge, attend
To the Satire I’ve pen’d
On the Heads of thy Houses,
Thou Seat of the Muses!
Know the Master of Jesus
Does hugely displease us;
The Master of Maudlin
In the same dirt is dawdling;
The Master of Sidney
Is of the same kidney;
The Master of Trinity
To him bears affinity;
As the Master of Keys
Is as like as two pease,
So the Master of Queen’s
Is as like as two beans;
The Master of King’s
Copies them in all things;
The Master of Catherine
Takes them all for his pattern;
The Master of Clare
Hits them all to a hair;
The Master of Christ
By the rest is enticed;
But the Master of Emmanuel
Follows them like a spaniel;
The Master of Benet
Is of the like tenet;
The Master of Pembroke
Has from them his system took;
The Master of Peter’s
Has all the same features;
The Master of St John’s
Like the rest of the Dons.
P.S. – As to Trinity Hall
We say nothing at all.
THOMAS GRAY
from Jubilate Agno
For the doubling of flowers is the improvement of the gardners talent.
For the flowers are gr
eat blessings.
For the Lord made a Nosegay in the meadow with his disciples and preached upon the lily.
For the angels of God took it out of his hand and carried it to the Height.
For a man cannot have publick spirit, who is void of private benevolence.
For there is no Height in which there are not flowers.
For flowers have great virtues for all the senses.
For the flower glorifies God and the root parries the adversary.
For the flowers have their angels even the words of God’s Creation.
For the warp and woof of flowers are worked by perpetual moving spirits.
For flowers are good both for the living and the dead.
For there is a language of flowers.
For there is a sound reasoning upon all flowers.
For elegant phrases are nothing but flowers.
For flowers are peculiarly the poetry of Christ.
For flowers are medicinal.
For flowers are musical in ocular harmony.
For the right names of flowers are yet in heaven. God make gard’ners better nomenclators.
For the Poorman’s nosegay is an introduction to a Prince.
CHRISTOPHER SMART
On the New Laureate
In merry old England, it once was a rule,
The king had his poet, as well as his fool;
And now we’re so frugal, I’d have you to know it,
That Cibber may serve both for fool and for poet.
ANON
‘Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds’
The Map and the Clock Page 13
