From this gem its Spirit’s strain.
What woe to come a pleader
For harp of Lim’rick’s Leader!
What woe to come a-dreaming
That flocks were thy redeeming!
Sweet thy full melodious voice,
Maid, who wast a Monarch’s choice:
Thy blithe voice would woe beguile,
Maiden of my Erinn’s isle!
Could I live the yew tree’s time
In this deer-loved eastern clime,
I would serve her gladly still, –
The Chief’s harp of Brendon Hill.
Dear to me – of right it should –
Alba’s ever-winsome wood,
Yet, though strange, more dear I love
This one tree of Erinn’s grove!
George Sigerson
A Response to a Threat against Poetry
O messenger sent from Rome,
responsible for spreading the word,
speak as the pen has directed,
no lies now, just read what’s written!
Out with the ban from Peter’s heir,
just as you received it from the chair;
if he gave you a gloomy old bull,
unassailable, let’s have it all.
Look after all of the words,
as they were spoken in Rome;
no other voice carries such weight –
burden enough to endure it.
You were not directed in Rome, cleric,
to expel the poets from Erin;
you got this directive’s curse
perhaps from some non-Roman source.
Show us where it is written
that the art of poetry needs revision;
make good what you have declared to us
and reveal the contents of your document!
Never have any books insisted
that poetry in its many forms be dismissed;
and it’s an ugly and alien idea
that Erin’s poets be driven away.
Donum Dei is every sweet song,
rooted in traditional learning;
sing it and set out its meaning –
that’s God’s gift, quite clearly.
To tell good men that songs cost nil,
if lords had poems without a bill,
then none would suffer satire,
cleric, and each would be a noble.
If it be for the sake of wealth
that poets will be denied their due,
doesn’t every man have sufficient,
cleric, even after the poet has payment?
Why, when he came from Rome,
did Patrick of the holy religion
not banish our art and song
from the face of gentle Ireland?
And what made Colum Cille,
who knew nothing but truth,
pay for poems as he made his way
to converse with angels each Thursday?
Another decree would have expelled
the poets from the green sod of Fodla;
but in the same year this Colum
made a covenant that saved them.
Blessed Mo-Bhí Clárainech,
though his honour was entirely untarnished,
gave up his life to poets when asked –
a generous gesture, if rather excessive.
And a statue once gave her shoe away
for an eloquent and boisterous lay;
the request itself was inordinate
for it left her with an uncovered foot.
Holy Mary’s Son will reward me
with compensation no man would pay;
in return for my songs I’ll get heaven,
just like the bard O’Heffernan.
Another proof of the value
of the composers of verse men listen to –
the truth of this has long been told –
freedom for the patron from hell!
The praise of men is praise of Him,
the one who created and shaped them;
there is no praise at all in the world
save praise of His works and miracles.
The rhyme of a stanza, sense of a word,
all redound to the glory of the Lord;
the sound of every tide as it rushes in,
is but praise of the mighty King.
Though falsehood be found in poetry,
they’re lasting lies, not transitory;
all is sham, and though shaped from clay,
man himself is a walking lie.
Were a man to act the miser,
his gold and herds would be no greater;
without respect for poetry in the world
there’d be no further need for cattle.
If the poetic art were killed,
no history, no ancient lays retold,
all but the father of each man
would pass away without mention.
If the well of knowledge went dry,
and we did not exist, no nobleman
would hear of his famous forebears,
or know the descent of the Gaels.
A lasting, ill fate and dire
for tender young warriors,
a great loss, leaving them dumb
not knowing the stock from which they come.
Hiding assaults and battles
of the men of Ireland would be useless:
when they died, though courageous they’d been,
interest in prince or nobility gone.
Though he is dead, Guaire lives on;
and the Red-branch hero Cú Chulainn;
as a result of his fame both east and west,
Brian Ború is with us yet.
Since their praise continues to live,
Conall and Conchobar survive;
as his fame remains in place,
Fergus has not yet gone from us.
There’s neither flesh nor bone of Lugh,
killed by the hand of Mac Cuill;
but his fame has gone throughout the world,
and thus Lugh lives, his memory preserved.
Had lays not preserved their deeds,
though they were noble men,
a cloak would long since have fallen
on Níall, Cormac, and Conn.
The line of kings of Cashel and Cruachan,
the House of Three Hostels’ scions,
Tuathal of Tara and Dath Í:
poets are the roots of those pedigrees.
Were there no poetry sung
to sweet-strung harp or timpan,
none would know of noble passed,
nor his repute nor manly prowess.
Men of high station would never know
their noble past or historical lore;
put all that in poetic composition,
or say goodbye to all man has done.
If they ban the history of Conn’s people,
along with songs about you, Donal,
then the children of your keeper of hounds
would enjoy the same status as your own.
If it’s the will of men of Ireland, messenger,
to banish the practice of poetry,
then no Gael’s birth would merit fanfare,
for each would be but a commoner!
Patrick K. Ford
Childless
Blessed Trinity have pity!
You can give the blind man sight,
Fill the rocks with waving grasses –
Give my house a child tonight.
You can bend the woods with blossom,
What is there you cannot do?
All the branches burst with leafage,
What’s a little child to you?
Trout out of a spawning bubble,
Bird from shell and yolk of an egg,
Hazel from a hazel berry –
Jesus, for a son I beg!
Corn from shoot and oak from acorn
Miracles of life awake,
Harvest from a
fist of seedlings –
Is a child so hard to make?
Childless men although they prosper
Are praised only when they are up,
Sterile grace however lovely
Is a seed that yields no crop.
There is no hell, no lasting torment
But to be childless at the end,
A naked stone in grassy places,
A man who leaves no love behind.
God I ask for two things only,
Heaven when my life is done,
Payment as befits a poet –
For my poem pay a son.
Plead with Him O Mother Mary,
Let Him grant the child I crave,
Womb that spun God’s human tissue,
I no human issue leave.
Brigid after whom they named me,
Beg a son for my reward,
Let no poet empty-handed
Leave the dwelling of his lord.
Frank O’Connor
ANONYMOUS
(c.1265)
A Norman French Poem from the Kildare Manuscript
from The Entrenchment of New Ross
A Working Week
On Monday they began their labours,
Amid the banners, flutes and tabors;
As soon as the noon-hour was come,
These first good people hastened home
Under banners, proudly borne,
And then the youth advanced in turn,
The youth who made the whole town ring
With their merry carolling.
Singing loudly, full of mirth,
They went hard at it, shovelling earth.
Then the priests, once Mass was chanted,
In the wide fosse dug and panted;
Quicker, harder, worked each brother,
Harder, far, than any other;
For both old and young were filled
With empowering holy zeal.
Next came the sailors, line on line,
Quickly marching through the town,
After their banner, held high up,
With its picture of a ship.
Though six hundred they were then,
Full eleven hundred men
Would have gathered by the wall
If they had attended all.
On Tuesday came coat-makers, tailors,
Fullers, cloth-dyers and saddlers;
An expert hand each cheerful lad
Was held to be at his own trade.
They worked as hard as those before,
Though the others numbered more;
If scarce four hundred they did stand
They were a more than worthy band.
On the Wednesday, down there came
Other groups, who worked the same;
Butchers, cordwainers and tanners,
Bearing each their separate banners,
Painted as appropriate
To their craft; among their lot
Many an eligible young man
Big or small, pale or tanned,
Sang, while digging, a working song:
Just three hundred were they strong.
On Thursday came the fishermen
And the hucksters followed then,
Who sell corn and fish: they bore
Many banners, for there were
Four hundred of them; then the crowd
Carolled all and sang aloud;
And the wainwrights, they came too –
But they were only thirty-two;
A single banner went before,
Which a fish and platter bore.
Three hundred and fifty porters came
On the Friday, and some of them
Planted their banners on the side
Of the fosse to vaunt their pride.
On Saturday came the stir
Of blacksmith, mason, carpenter,
Hundreds three with fifty told,
And each one of them true and bold,
Toiling away with main and might
To do what he knew was right.
Then on Sunday there came down
All the dames of that brave town;
Right true good labourers were they,
But their numbers none may say.
In a great mound there were thrown,
By their fair hands, many a stone;
Who had there a gazer been,
Many beauties would have seen.
Many a lovely mantle too,
Of scarlet, green or russet hue;
Many a fair cloak had they,
And robes bedecked with colours gay.
In no land where I have been
Dames work so hard have I seen.
Who had to look on them the power,
Was surely born in a lucky hour.
Many a banner was displayed,
While this work the ladies did;
When their gentle hands had done
Piling up rude heaps of stone,
They walked the finished fosse along,
Singing a sweet cheerful song …
PC, after Mrs George Maclean
(Norman French)
ANONYMOUS
(late 13th century)
Lament for the Children
Sadly the ousel sings. I know
No less than he a world of woe.
The robbers of his nest have ta’en
His eggs and all his younglings slain.
The grief his sobbing notes would say
I knew it but the other day:
Sad ousel, well I know that tone
Of sorrow for thy nestlings gone!
Some soulless lout of base desire,
Ousel, has turned thy heart to fire;
Empty of birds and eggs thy nest
Touched not the cruel herdboy’s breast.
Thy young things in the days gone by
Fluttered in answer to thy cry.
Thy house is desolate. No more
They chirp about the twig-built door.
The heartless herders of the kine
Slew in one day those birds of thine;
I share that bitter fate with thee,
My children too are gone from me.
Till night they hopped among the trees,
Chicks of the bird from overseas,
Till the net’s meshes round them fall.
The cruel herdboy took them all.
O God that made the whole world thus,
Alas, thy heavy hand on us!
For all my friends around are gay,
Their wives and children live today.
Out of the fairy hill a flame
To slay my hapless loved ones came:
No wound is on them, but I know
A fairy arrow laid them low.
So in my anguish I complain
All day for wife and young ones slain:
They go not out and in my door,
No marvel my sad heart is sore!
Robin Flower
ANONYMOUS MIDDLE ENGLISH
(early 14th century)
Icham of Irlaunde
Icham of Irlaunde
Ant of the holy londe
Of Irlaunde.
Gode sire, pray ich the,
For of saynte charite,
Come ant daunce wyt me
In Irlaunde.
ANONYMOUS
Four Hiberno-English Poems from the Kildare Manuscript
(early 14th century)
The Land of Cockayne
Out at sea west of Spain
Is a land called Cockayne.
There is no land under the sky
To match it for prosperity.
If Paradise be merry and bright
Cockayne is yet a fairer sight;
What’s in Paradise anyway
But flowers, grass and greenery?
Joy and pleasure reign there but
The only thing to eat is fruit;
No hall there, no bower, nor bench
And only water your
thirst to quench.
Of humans there are just the two,
Enoch and Elias also;
It must be lonely to wander where
No people live anymore!
In Cockayne are drink and food
And everything to do you good;
The food is fresh, the drink is pure
For lunch, quick bite or full supper.
I want to say it loud and clear:
There is no land on earth its peer
And under heaven nowhere is
Half so full of joy and bliss.
There you’ll find many a pleasant sight
And always day but never night;
No conflict in that land nor strife
And no death there but always life.
There is no lack of food or clothing,
And folk there practise love not loathing.
No snake you’ll find, no wolf nor fox,
No horse no jade no cow no ox.
No sheep, no pigs, no goats are there,
No dung, God knows, to foul the air.
No horse-raising farm or stud –
The land is full of other good.
Nor is there fly, flea or louse
In any clothing, bed or house.
There is no thunder, sleet or hail
Nor any low vile worm or snail,
No howling storm or rain or wind,
No man or woman there is blind.
There all is pleasure, glee and joy,
Happy the man there as the boy
Where run rivers deep and fine
Of milk and honey, oil and wine.
The water there is used for nothing
But for scenery and washing.
There grows every kind of fruit
And all is comfort and delight.
There you’ll find a handsome abbey
Full of monks in white and grey;
On the inside bowers and halls;
Of tasty pies are built the walls,
Of food and fish and rich meat,
The choicest that a man can eat.
Flour cakes are the shingles all
In church and cloister, bower and hall,
The dowels are made of fat puddings,
Tasty food for chiefs and kings.
A man may stuff the whole lot in
And never fear committing sin.
There all is shared by young and old,
By stout and stern, meek and bold.
There is a cloister fair and light
Broad and long, a lovely sight.
The pillars in that cloister’s shade
With brightest crystal are inlaid
And each base and capital
Of jasper’s made and red coral.
In the garden is a tree
Very beautiful to see,
Of gingered galingale its roots
The Penguin Book of Irish Poetry Page 17
