He struts a Beau among the homely Swains.
The Butcher’s soggy Spouse amid the Throng,
Rubbed clean, and tawdry dressed, puffs slow along:
Her pond’rous Rings the wond’ring Mob behold,
And dwell on every Finger heaped with Gold:
Long to St. Patrick’s filthy Shambles bound,
Surprised, she views the rural Scene around;
The distant Ocean there salutes her Eyes,
Here towering Hills in goodly Order rise;
There fruitful Valleys long extended lay,
Here Sheaves of Corn, and Cocks of fragrant Hay.
While whatso’er she hears, she smells, or sees,
Gives her fresh Transports; and she dotes on Trees.
Yet (hapless Wretch) the servile Thirst of Gain,
Can force her to her stinking Stall again.
Nor was the Country Justice wanting there,
To make a Penny of the Rogues that swear;
With supercilious Looks he awes the Green,
‘Sirs, keep the Peace – I represent the Queen.’
Poor Paddy swears his whole Week’s Gains away,
While my young Squires blaspheme, and nothing pay.
All on the mossy Turf confused were laid,
The jolly Rustic, and the buxom Maid,
Impatient for the Sport, too long delayed.
When lo, old Arbiter amid the Crowd,
Prince of the annual Games, proclaimed aloud,
‘Ye Virgins, that intend to try the Race,
The swiftest wins a Smock enriched with Lace:
A Cambric Kerchief shall the next adorn;
And Kidden Gloves shall by the third be worn.’
This said, he high in Air displayed each Prize;
All view the waving Smock with longing Eyes.
Fair Oonah at the Barrier first appears,
Pride of the neighb’ring Mill, in Bloom of Years;
Her native Brightness borrows not one Grace,
Uncultivated Charms adorn her Face,
Her rosy Cheeks with modest Blushes glow,
At once her Innocence and Beauty show:
Oonah the Eyes of each Spectator draws,
What Bosom beats not in fair Oonah’s Cause?
Tall as a Pine, Majestic Nora stood,
Her youthful Veins were filled with sprightly Blood,
Inured to Toils, in wholesome Gardens bred,
Exact in every Limb, and formed for Speed.
To thee, O Shevan, next what Praise is due?
Thy Youth and Beauty doubly strike the View,
Fresh as the Plum that keeps the Virgin Blue!
Each well deserves the Smock – but Fates decree
But One must wear it, though deserved by Three.
Now Side by Side the panting Rivals stand,
And fix their Eyes upon th’ appointed Hand:
The Signal giv’n, spring forward to the Race;
Not famed Camilla ran with fleeter Pace.
Nora, as Light’ning swift, the rest o’er passed,
While Shevan fleetly ran, yet ran the last.
But Oonah, thou hadst Venus on thy side;
At Norah’s Petticoat the Goddess plied,
And in a Trice the fatal String untied.
Quick stopped the Maid, nor would, to win the Prize,
Expose her hidden Charms to vulgar Eyes.
But while to tie the treach’rous Knot she stayed,
Both her glad Rivals pass the weeping Maid.
Now in despair she plies the Race again,
Not wingèd Winds dart swifter o’er the Plain:
She (while chaste Diana aids her hapless Speed)
Shevan outstripped – nor further could succeed.
For with redoubled Haste bright Oonah flies,
Seizes the Goal, and wins the noblest Prize.
Loud Shouts and Acclamations fill the Place,
Though Chance on Oonah had bestowed the Race;
Like Felim none rejoiced – a lovelier Swain
Ne’er fed a Flock on the Fingalian Plain.
Long he with secret Passion loved the Maid,
Now his increasing Flame itself betrayed.
Stripped for the Race how bright did she appear!
No Cov’ring hid her Feet, her Bosom bare,
And to the Wind she gave her flowing Hair.
A thousand Charms he saw, concealed before,
Those, yet concealed, he fancied still were more.
Felim, as Night came on, young Oonah wooed;
Soon willing Beauty was by Truth subdued.
No jarring Settlement their Bliss annoys,
No Licence needed to defer their Joys.
Oonah e’er Morn the Sweets of Wedlock tried;
The Smock she won a Virgin, wore a Bride.
PEADAR Ó DOIRNÍN
(c.1700–c.1769)
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.
Michael Longley
MATTHEW PILKINGTON
(1701–74)
from The Progress of Music in Ireland
Music henceforward more Domestic grew,
Courts the thronged Towns, and from the Plains withdrew:
The Vagrant Bard his circling Visits pays,
And charms the Villages with venal Lays;
The solemn Harp, beneath his Shoulder placed,
With both his Arms is earnestly embraced,
Sweetly irregular, now swift, now slow,
With soft Variety his Numbers flow,
The shrill, the deep, the gentle, and the strong,
With pleasing Dissonance adorn his Song;
While through the Chords his Hands unwearied range,
The Music changing as his Fingers change.
The Crowd transported in Attention hung,
Their Breath in Silence sleeps upon the Tongue,
The Wheels forget to turn, the Labours cease,
And every Sound but Music sinks to Peace.
So when the Thracian charmed the Shades below,
And brought down Raptures to the Realms of Woe,
Despairing Ghosts from Labour stand released,
Each Wheel, each Instrument of Torture ceased;
The Furies drop their Whips, afflictive Pain
Suspends, with ghastly Smiles, her Iron Reign,
All Groans were stilled, all Sorrow lulled to Rest,
And every Care was hushed in every Breast.
Joy spreads her Wings o’er all the raptured Isle,
And bids each Face be brightened to a Smile.
Now Nature, pleased, her Gifts profusely pours,
To paint the cheerful Earth with od’rous Flowers:
So changed a Scene she wonders to survey,
And bids ev’n Things inanimate look gay.
WILLIAM DUNKIN
(c.1709–65)
The Poet’s Prayer
If e’er in thy sight I found favour, Apollo,
Defend me from all the disasters, which follow:
From the knaves, and the fools, and the fops of the time,
From the drudges in prose, and the triflers in rhyme:
From the patch-work, and toils of the royal sack-bibber,
&
nbsp; Those dead birth-day odes, and the farces of CIBBER:
From servile attendance on men in high places,
Their worships, and honours, and lordships, and graces:
From long dedications to patrons unworthy,
Who hear, and receive, but will do nothing for thee:
From being caress’d, to be left in the lurch,
The tool of a party, in state, or in church:
From dull thinking blockheads, as sober, as Turks,
And petulant bards, who repeat their own works:
From all the gay things of a drawing-room show,
The sight of a Belle, and the smell of a Beau:
From busy back-biters, and tatlers, and carpers,
And scurvy acquaintance with fiddlers, and sharpers:
From old politicians, and coffee-house lectures,
The dreams of a chymist, and schemes of projectors:
From the fears of a jail, and the hopes of a pension,
The tricks of a gamester, and oaths of an ensign:
From shallow free-thinkers, in taverns disputing,
Nor ever confuted, nor ever confuting:
From the constant good fare of another man’s board,
My lady’s broad hints, and the jests of my lord:
From hearing old chymists prelecting de oleo,
And reading of Dutch commentators in folio:
From waiting, like GAY, whole years at Whitehall:
From the pride of great wits, and the envy of small:
From very fine ladies with very fine incomes,
Which they finely lay out on fine toys, and fine trincums:
From the pranks of ridottoes, and court-masquerades,
The snares of young jilts, and the spite of old maids:
From a saucy dull stage, and submitting to share
In an empty third night with a beggarly play’r:
From CURL, and such Printers, as would have me curst
To write second parts, let who will write the first:
From all pious patriots, who would, to their best,
Put on a new tax, and take off an old test:
From the faith of informers, the fangs of the law,
And the great rogues, who keep all the lesser in awe:
From a poor country-cure, that living interment,
With a wife, and no prospect of any preferment:
From scribbling for hire, when my credit is sunk,
To buy a new coat, and to line an old trunk:
From squires, who divert us with jokes at their tables,
Of hounds in their kennels, and nags in their stables:
From the nobles and commons, who bound in strict league are
To subscribe for no book, yet subscribe to Heidegger:
From the cant of fanatics, the jargon of schools,
The censures of wise men, and praises of fools:
From critics, who never read Latin, or Greek,
And pedants, who boast they read both all the week:
From borrowing wit, to repay it like BUDGEL,
Or lending, like POPE, to be paid by a cudgel.
If ever thou didst, or wilt ever befriend me,
From these, and such evils, APOLLO, defend me;
And let me be rather but honest with no-wit,
Than a noisy, nonsensical, half-witted poet.
from An Epistle to Robert Nugent, Esquire, with a Picture of Doctor Swift
Ah! where is now the supple train,
That danced attendance on the Dean?
Say, where are those facetious folks,
Who shook with laughter at his jokes,
And with attentive rapture hung,
On wisdom, dropping from his tongue;
Who looked with high disdainful pride
On all the busy world beside,
And rated his productions more
Than treasures of Peruvian ore?
Good Christians! they with bended knees
Engulfed the wine, but loathe the lees,
Averting, (so the text commands,)
With ardent eyes and upcast hands,
The cup of sorrow from their lips,
And fly, like rats, from sinking ships.
While some, who by his friendship rose
To wealth, in concert with his foes
Run counter to their former track,
Like old Actæon’s horrid pack
Of yelling mongrels, in requitals
To riot on their master’s vitals,
And, where they cannot blast his laurels,
Attempt to stigmatize his morals,
Through Scandal’s magnifying glass
His foibles view, but virtues pass,
And, on the ruins of his fame,
Erect an ignominious name.
So vermin foul, of vile extraction,
The spawn of dirt and putrefaction,
The sounder members traverse o’er,
But fix and fatten on a sore.
Hence! peace, ye wretches, who revile
His wit, his humour, and his style;
Since all the monsters which he drew
Were only meant to copy you;
And, if the colours be not fainter,
Arraign yourselves, and not the painter.
But, O! that He, who gave him breath,
Dread arbiter of life and death,
That He, the moving soul of all,
The sleeping spirit would recall,
And crown him with triumphant meeds,
For all his past heroic deeds,
In mansions of unbroken rest,
The bright republic of the blessed!
Irradiate his benighted mind
With living light of light refined;
And there the blank of thought employ
With objects of immortal joy!
Yet, while he drags the sad remains
Of life, slow-creeping through his veins,
Above the views of private ends,
The tributary Muse attends,
To prop his feeble steps, or shed
The pious tear around his bed.
So pilgrims, with devout complaints,
Frequent the graves of martyred saints,
Inscribe their worth in artless lines,
And, in their stead, embrace their shrines.
DONNCHADH RUA MAC CON MARA
(1715–1810)
Epitaph for Tadgh Gaedhealach Ó Súilleabháin
Thady is buried here; cast your eye this way, traveller:
This small patch of earth covers the poet in his greatness.
Here, alas, he lies dead; unshakeable fate overcame him,
Leaving the earth, his spirit has sought the high stars.
Who sings Ireland’s praises now, who sings the deeds of her heroes?
Gadelus being silent, the Irish muse sings no more.
Singing a holy song in learned measures he parted,
As victor he parted to take up his certain reward.
Once he made famous verses in praise of God the Almighty,
Now in rapture, for ever he sings forth his hymns.
Muses lament, your pupil has left us for ever,
Eochad’s son is now gone, silence falls over all.
Peace was his wish, peace he has sought in the heavens;
In the realm of the Father, in the blest kingdom above.
Peter Davidson (Latin)
DOROTHEA DUBOIS
(1728–74)
The Amazonian Gift
Is Courage in a Woman’s Breast,
Less pleasing than in Man?
And is a smiling Maid allowed
No weapon but a Fan?
’Tis true her Tongue, I’ve heard ’em say,
Is Woman’s chief Defence;
And if you’ll b’lieve me, gentle Youths,
I have no Aid from thence.
And some will say that sparkling Eyes
More dang’rous are than Swords;
But I
ne’er point my Eyes to kill,
Nor put I trust in words.
Then, since the Arms that Women use,
Successless are in me,
I’ll take the Pistol, Sword or Gun,
And thus equipped, live free.
The pattern of the Spartan Dame
I’ll copy as I can;
To Man, degen’rate Man, I’ll give
That simple Thing, a Fan.
JOHN CUNNINGHAM
(1729–73)
The Ant and Caterpillar: A Fable
As an Ant, of his talents superiorly vain,
Was trotting, with consequence, over the plain,
A Worm, in his progress remarkably slow,
Cried – ‘Bless your good worship wherever you go;
I hope your great mightiness won’t take it ill,
I pay my respects with an hearty good-will.’
With a look of contempt and impertinent pride,
‘Begone, you vile reptile,’ his Antship replied;
‘Go – go and lament your contemptible state,
But first – look at me – see my limbs how complete;
I guide all my motions with freedom and ease,
Run backward and forward, and turn when I please:
Of nature (grown weary) you shocking essay!
I spurn you thus from me – crawl out of my way.’
The reptile insulted, and vexed to the soul,
Crept onwards, and hid himself close in his hole;
But nature, determined to end his distress,
Soon sent him abroad in a Butterfly’s dress.
Ere long the proud Ant, as repassing the road,
(Fatigued from the harvest, and tugging his load)
The beau on a violet bank he beheld,
Whose vesture, in glory, a monarch’s excelled;
His plumage expanded – ’twas rare to behold
So lovely a mixture of purple and gold.
The Ant quite amazed at a figure so gay,
Bowed low with respect, and was trudging away.
‘Stop, friend,’ says the Butterfly – ‘don’t be surprised,
I once was the reptile you spurned and despised;
But now I can mount, in the sun-beams I play,
While you must, forever, drudge on in your way.’
MORAL
A wretch, though today he’s o’er-loaded with sorrow,
May soar above those that oppressed him – tomorrow.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
The Penguin Book of Irish Poetry Page 29
