The Penguin Book of Irish Poetry

by Patrick Crotty (ed)

  Proper in his person, with gyfts so hym nature adorned.

  In valor and in honor wel knowne too no man unequal.

  And a true found subject, to his Prince most faythful abyding.

  Theese not with standing his liefe too to hastelye vannisht.

  Nipt were thee blossoms, eare fruictful season aproched.

  Wherefor his acquayntaunce his death so untymelye bewayleth.

  Maynoth lamenteth, Kilka and Rathangan ar howling.

  Nay rather is mated bye this hard hap desolat Ireland.

  Such claps of batter that seally unfortunat Island.

  O that I thy prayses could wel decipher in order,

  Lyke Homer or Virgil, lyke Geffray Chauncer in English:

  Then would thy Stanyhurst in pen bee liberal holden.

  Thee poet is barrayn, for prayse rich matter is offred. Heere percase carpers wyl twight his iollitye youthful.

  Strong reason unstrayned that weake obiection aunswers.

  Hee must bee peerlesse who in yong yeers faultes abydeth.

  Such byrds flee seldoom, such black swans scantlye be floating.

  In world of mischiefe who finds such glorius angels?

  Soom stars passe oothers; al perls doe not equalye luster.

  Thee soundest wheatcorne with chaffy filthod is husked.

  What shall I say further, this loare divinitye telleth;

  Vertuus hee lived, through grace that vertuus eended.

  What may be then better, than a godly and gratius upshot?

  Too God in al pietee, too Prince in dutye remayning.

  Whearefor (woorthye Girald) syth thy eend was hertye repentaunce,

  Thy soul God gladdeth with saincts in blessed Olympus,

  Thogh tumbd bee carcase in towne of martyred Alban.

  TADHG DALL Ó HUIGÍNN

  (1550–91)

  Enniskillen

  How sad, seeing Enniskillen –

  its silvery bays and tuneful falls;

  Because we cannot let the image go,

  It hurts to gaze on its splendid walls.

  Long before I ever came

  to the gleaming hall and grassy knoll,

  I knew that if ever I found it

  I’d lack for nothing at all.

  The fame had spread, sad to reflect,

  of this otherworld of flawless treasure;

  I heard I’d be enchanted, beguiled,

  Nothing would keep me from going there.

  What everyone told me was

  That never in Banba was seen

  A dwelling the likes of that one,

  Hallowed hall of the lion of Erne.

  They also said whoever saw

  the twining wood and dewy plain,

  sandy beach and rich green fields,

  would never venture forth again.

  Once I’d heard this glowing report,

  Whenever I slept for a while,

  No other vision visited me

  But the beauty of that fair domicile.

  Off I went, and gained the place –

  Enniskillen under gnarled oak,

  across the field, through laden boughs,

  the sight of it took me aback.

  Even before I neared the place,

  the sounds were anything but tame:

  lively yowls of dogs and hounds

  in the woods flushing game.

  The shore beside the court,

  In the still-watered, fairy bay,

  scarcely could any of it be seen

  so thick were the masts of ships arrayed.

  And beside the court there I could see

  a beautiful, gilded plain,

  the bright fort’s dewy green,

  Heaven’s domain, or much the same.

  This is how I saw the turf –

  overturned from horses’ hoofs;

  plants couldn’t grow in the green there,

  with herds competing in droves.

  The steeds of the court were racing –

  I can see them now in their courses,

  the hilly terrain completely obscured,

  not by mist but by horses.

  I kept to my course, straight on,

  to the arched fort of the Lia;

  those I found inside the fair walls

  were a wonderful sort of family.

  I found the nobles of Colla’s race

  in the crowded court giving gifts,

  and men who could open the mysteries

  of the origins of the Gaels of Greece.

  I found, too, throughout the fort,

  its fill of minstrels and poets,

  wall to wall one might say;

  happy the house with such talents!

  In another part I found maidens,

  fine-lipped and clad in silk,

  embroidering fine, golden fringe,

  there in the noble, sportive lodge.

  A throng of warriors throughout the house,

  lining the walls within;

  their pointed weapons just above them,

  regiment of fruited Drumquin.

  A great troop of youth, as if from the sídh,

  from Badb’s sídh or the hostel of Ler,

  so shining bright no eye could sight them,

  manned the bright, branched rampart.

  A group of artisans making goblets,

  another of smiths forging arms;

  craftsmen from many lands about her,

  precious gem of the soft, still water.

  Swords being burnished, cloths dyed purple,

  spear heads hammered, horses exercising,

  hostages pledged, terms arranged,

  scholars examining lists of kings.

  Hostages being taken, others let go,

  warriors recovering, others wounded,

  wealth rolling in, gifts handed out

  from this splendid palace, out of this world.

  They passed the time part of the day

  recounting deeds and talking conflict;

  then for a spate the men of Uisneach

  would drink and dine and listen to music.

  And so, till dinner, we passed the day,

  a lovely day that seemed but an hour,

  in the shining, bright rampart,

  fertile and grassy enclosure.

  Each was set in his proper place,

  on smooth benches in the elegant hall;

  rarely would a hostel have seen the likes

  of the throng that filled the long table.

  Cú Chonnacht Óg, Cú Chonnacht’s son,

  passion’s mist clings to him,

  when all in the hall were in their seats

  settled into his royal throne.

  I sat on the right of the dragon of Tara

  till the drinking had run its course;

  and the king did not ignore or snub me,

  though plenty of nobles paid him court.

  In a while, when the time came

  for the company to lie and rest,

  downy coverlets were all arranged

  for the well-mannered, the very best.

  Before dawn broke in the house,

  a crew of them were fitting spears;

  horses shod at break of day,

  men rounding up horses.

  Barely had I awakened

  there in the bright stone rampart,

  when I saw around the hawk of Síoth Truim

  fine warriors armed for conflict.

  Before daylight they went from us,

  hardened lads from the king’s court;

  spear-bearing, solemn, a great brigade;

  suing for peace was not their art.

  Not long after, they returned;

  victorious wherever they roamed;

  men of Colla with golden bands –

  happy the land they call home!

  Many a woman, that day at Loch Erne,

  whose husband did not survive;

  and the aftermath of battle,

>   saw many a wounded hostage arrive.

  There in the house, splendid wealth

  that hadn’t been there in the morn,

  and cattle grazing close at hand

  that weren’t there the night before.

  Then came payments to poets

  by the Ó Eochaid who never shunned battle;

  their costly verse did little damage,

  though their rewards were more than was due.

  I sought my leave of Maguire

  along with the other scholars,

  parting from the bright, lofty fort –

  alas that permission was granted!

  As I turned to go, he said to me,

  tears coursing down his noble cheek,

  that though I might be far away,

  that would not cause our bond to break.

  I remember the day I took my leave

  of the palace and all its retainers;

  so heavy a pall lay upon them all

  that none saw the grief of the others.

  I’m the worse for the loss of the household;

  a pity my own time isn’t here

  rather than long life after them;

  I fear that I shall long endure.

  I never heard of a household so good

  as those in that fort, God bless them!

  under any of those sprung from Colla –

  and so every chief poet will claim.

  None would leave, of his own free will,

  the bright plain of the hero’s haven;

  since it lured men from every quarter,

  how sad, seeing Enniskillen.

  Patrick K. Ford

  DIARMAID Ó BRIAIN

  (late 16th century?)

  The Shannon

  Shannon! King Brian’s native river,

  – Ah! the wide wonder of thy glee –

  No more thy waters babble and quiver

  As here they join the western sea.

  By ancient Borivy thou flowest

  And past Kincora rippling by

  With sweet unceasing chant thou goest,

  For Mary’s babe a lullaby.

  Born first in Breffney’s Iron Mountain

  – I hide not thy nativity –

  Thou speedest from that northern fountain

  Swift through thy lakes, Loch Derg, Loch Ree.

  Over Dunass all undelaying

  Thy sheer unbridled waters flee;

  Past Limerick town they loiter, staying

  Their flight into the western sea.

  From Limerick, where the tidal

  welling Of the swift water comes and goes,

  By Scattery, saintly Seanán’s dwelling,

  Thou goest and whither then who knows?

  Thomond is clasped in thy embraces

  And all her shores thou lovest well,

  Where by Dunass thy cataract races

  And where thy seaward waters swell.

  Boyne, Siuir and Laune of ancient story,

  And Suck’s swift flood – these have their fame;

  But in the poet’s roll of glory

  Thine, Shannon, is a nobler name.

  Robin Flower

  GARRET (‘GIRALD’) FITZGERALD, BARON OF OFFALY

  (1559?–80)

  A Penitent Sonnet written by thee Lord Girald a litle beefore his death

  By losse in play men oft forget

  Thee duitye they dooe owe,

  Too hym that dyd bestow thee same,

  And thowsands millions moe.

  I loathe too see theym sweare and stare,

  When they the mayne have lost;

  Forgetting all thee byes, that weare

  With God and holye goast.

  By wounds and nayles they thinck too wyn,

  But truely yt is not so:

  For al thayre frets and fumes in syn,

  They mooniles must goa.

  Theare is no wight that usd yt more,

  Then hee that wrote this verse;

  Who cryeth, peccavi, now therefore

  His othes his hert doe perce.

  Therefor example take by mee,

  That curse thee lucklesse tyme,

  That eaver dice myne eyes dyd see,

  Which bred in mee this crime.

  Pardon mee for that is past,

  I wyl offend no more:

  In this moste vile and sinful cast,

  Which I wyl stil abhore.

  LAOISEACH MAC AN BHAIRD

  (fl. late 16th century)

  Brothers

  You who opt for English ways

  And crop your curls, your crowning glory,

  You, my handsome specimen,

  Are no true son of Donncha’s.

  If you were, you would not switch

  To modes in favour with the English;

  You, the flower of Fódla’s land,

  Would never end up barbered.

  A full head of long, fair hair

  Is not for you; it is your brother

  Who scorns the foreigners’ close cut.

  The pair of you are opposites.

  Eoghan Bán won’t ape their ways,

  Eoghan beloved of noble ladies

  Is enemy to English fads

  And lives beyond the pale of fashion.

  Eoghan Bán is not like you.

  Breeches aren’t a thing he values.

  A clout will do him for a cloak.

  Leggings he won’t wear, nor greatcoat.

  He hates the thought of jewelled spurs

  Flashing on his feet and footwear,

  And stockings of the English sort,

  And being all prinked up and whiskered.

  He’s Donncha’s true son, for sure.

  He won’t be seen with a rapier

  Angled like an awl, out arseways,

  As he swanks it to the meeting place.

  Sashes worked with threads of gold

  And high stiff collars out of Holland

  Are not for him, nor satin scarves

  That sweep the ground, nor gold rings even.

  He has no conceit in feather beds,

  Would rather stretch himself on rushes,

  Dwell in a bothy than a bawn,

  And make the branch his battlement.

  Horsemen in the mouth of a glen,

  A savage clash, kernes skirmishing –

  This man is in his element

  Taking on the foreigner.

  But you are not like Eoghan Bán.

  You’re a laughing stock on stepping stones

  With your dainty foot: a sad disgrace,

  You who opt for English ways.

  Seamus Heaney

  The Felling of a Sacred Tree

  My condolence, hill up there!

  Your fall from grace a grievous fate.

  A theme for woe your withering Thorn

  that stood out green upon your crest.

  That Thorn of Council now means anguish,

  before revered as the meeting-place.

  That branch’s cutting, my day of grief,

  means the whole nation is despoiled.

  My heart is darkened deep within me

  for your sacred tree, my skyline hill.

  The prop from which I took my bearings,

  your graceful Thorn, I can see no more.

  That bough would always show my way:

  how briefly do directions last! –

  All the way west from my northern land

  I would see that branch stand clear for me.

  The wind now has savaged its root,

  that tree that stood so long supreme.

  Those that it sheltered were not few.

  A sad plague is its destruction.

  That graceful branch of sloe-bright hue,

  I mourn its falling under some curse.

  Hard not to grieve for Christ’s deep passion,

  when I lament so much this tree

  that has been taken, and ruined us,

  this lovely Thorntree
that screened the birds.

  Its equal never grew from earth.

  I will weep for it until I die.

  My anguish to the verge of death!

  Alas! That it will rise no more.

  When I see the hill and its sapling grove

  the Thorn’s fate brings me to tears.

  Hill of hilarity, teachers’ despair,

  today in the hands of enemies.

  That its slopes should cause me pain,

  the graceful hill that stung me to love!

  Bernard O’Donoghue

  A Man of Experience

  Really, what a shocking scene!

  A decent girl, a public place!

  What the devil do you mean,

  Mooching round with such a face?

  Things can’t really be so bad,

  Surely someone would have said

  If – of course the thing is mad,

  No, your mother isn’t dead.

  Sighing, sniffling, looking tense,

  Sitting mum the whole day through;

  Speaking from experience

  I can guess what’s wrong with you.

  Roses withering in the cheek,

  Sunlight clouding in the hair,

  Heaving breasts and looks so meek –

  You’re in love, my girl, I swear.

  If love really caused all this

  So that looks and grace are gone

  Shouldn’t you tell me who it is? –

  Even if I should be the man.

  If I really were the man

  You wouldn’t find me too severe,

  Don’t think I’m a Puritan,

  I’ve been through it too my dear.

  And if you’d whispered in my ear:

  ‘Darling, I’m in love with you’

  I wouldn’t have scolded, never fear;

  I know just what girls go through.

  How does it take you, could you say?

  Are you faint when I pass by?

  Don’t just blush and look away –

  Who should know love if not I?

  You’ll be twice the girl tonight

  Once you get it off your chest;

  Why – who knows? – you even might

  Win me to your snowy breast.

  Make love just the way that seems

  Fittest to you, ’twill be right.

  Think of it! Your wildest dreams

  Might come true this very night.

  That’s enough for once, my dear

  Stop that snivelling and begin;

  Come now, not another tear –

  Lord, look at the state you’re in!

  Frank O’Connor

  ANONYMOUS

  The Scholar

  Summer delights the scholar

  With knowledge and reason.