My bitter foes between!
George Sigerson
Patrick Sarsfield, Lord Lucan
Farewell Patrick Sarsfield wherever you may roam,
You crossed the sea to France and left empty camps at home,
To plead our cause before many a foreign throne
Though you left ourselves and poor Ireland overthrown.
Good luck Patrick Sarsfield you were sent to us by God,
And holy forever is the earth that you trod;
May the sun and the white moon light your way,
You trounced King Billy and won the day.
With you Patrick Sarsfield goes the prayer of everyone,
My own prayer too, and the prayer of Mary’s Son,
You rode through Birr, the Narrow Ford you passed,
You beat them at Cullen and took Limerick at last.
I’ll climb the mountain a lonely man,
And I’ll go east again if I can,
’Twas there I saw the Irish ready for the fight,
The lousy crowd that wouldn’t unite!
Who’s that I see now yonder on Howth Head?
‘One of Jamie’s soldiers sir, now the king has fled,
Last year with gun and knapsack I marched with joyous tread,
But this year sir I’m begging my bread.’
And God when I think how Diarmuid went under,
His standard broken and his limbs pulled asunder,
And God Himself couldn’t fight a way through
When they chopped off his head and held it in our view.
The corn tumbled soon as the scythes went through,
The twelve Kilkenny men were the first that they slew,
My two brothers died and I held my breath,
But the death that broke me was Diarmuid’s death.
At the Boyne bridge we took our first beating,
From the bridge at Slane we were soon retreating,
And then we were beaten at Aughrim too –
Ah, fragrant Ireland, that was goodbye to you.
The fumes were choking as the house went alight,
And Black Billy’s heroes were warming to the fight,
And every shell that came, wherever it lit,
Colonel Mitchell asked was Lord Lucan hit.
So goodbye Limerick and your homes so fair,
And all the good friends that quartered with us there,
And the cards we played by the watchfires’ glare
And the priests that called us all night to prayer.
But on you Londonderry may misfortune come
Like the smoke that lit with every bursting gun
For all the fine soldiers you gathered together
By your walls without shelter from wind or weather.
Many and many a good lad, all proud and gay,
Seven weeks ago they were passing this way,
With guns and swords and pikes on show,
And now in Aughrim they’re lying low.
Aughrim has manure that’s neither lime nor sand
But sturdy young soldiers to nourish the land,
The men we left behind on the battlefield that day
Torn like horsemeat by the dogs where they lay.
And over the seas are Ireland’s best,
The Dukes and the Burkes, Prince Charlie and the rest,
And Captain Talbot their ranks adorning,
And Patrick Sarsfield, Ireland’s darling.
Frank O’Connor
Mairgréad ni Chealleadh
At the dance in the village
Thy white foot was fleetest;
Thy voice ’mid the concert
Of maidens was sweetest;
The swell of thy white breast
Made rich lovers follow;
And thy raven hair bound them,
Young Mairgréad ni Chealleadh.
Thy neck was, lost maid,
Than the ceanabhan whiter,
And the glow of thy cheek
Than the monadan brighter;
But death’s chain hath bound thee,
Thine eye’s glazed and hollow,
That shone like a sunburst,
Young Mairgréad ni Chealleadh.
No more shall mine ear drink
Thy melody swelling;
Nor thy beamy eye brighten
The outlaw’s dark dwelling;
Or thy soft heaving bosom
My destiny hallow,
When thine arms twine around me,
Young Mairgréad ni Chealleadh.
The moss couch I brought thee
Today from the mountain,
Has drank the last drop
Of thy young heart’s red fountain –
For this good skian beside me
Struck deep and rung hollow
In thy bosom of treason,
Young Mairgréad ni Chealleadh.
With strings of rich pearls
Thy white neck was laden,
And thy fingers with spoils
Of the Sassanach maiden:
Such rich silks enrob’d not
The proud dames of Mallow –
Such pure gold they wore not
As Mairgréad ni Chealleadh.
Alas! that my loved one
Her outlaw would injure –
Alas! that he e’er proved
Her treason’s avenger!
That this right hand should make thee
A bed cold and hollow,
When in death’s sleep it laid thee,
Young Mairgréad ni Chealleadh.
And while to this lone cave
My deep grief I’m venting,
The Saxon’s keen bandog
My footsteps is scenting;
But true men await me
Afar in Duhallow.
Farewell, cave of slaughter,
And Mairgréad ni Chealleadh.
Edward Walsh
The Dirge of O’Sullivan Bear
The sun on Ivera
No longer shines brightly,
The voice of her music
No longer is sprightly,
No more to her maidens
The light dance is dear,
Since the death of our darling
O’Sullivan Bear.
Scully! thou false one,
You basely betrayed him,
In his strong hour of need,
When thy right hand should aid him;
He fed thee – he clad thee –
You had all could delight thee:
You left him – you sold him –
May Heaven requite thee!
Scully! may all kinds
Of evil attend thee!
On thy dark road of life
May no kind one befriend thee!
May fevers long burn thee,
And agues long freeze thee!
May the strong hand of God
In His red anger seize thee!
Had he died calmly
I would not deplore him,
Or if the wild strife
Of the sea-war closed o’er him;
But with ropes round his white limbs
Through ocean to trail him,
Like a fish after slaughter –
’Tis therefore I wail him.
Long may the curse
Of his people pursue them:
Scully that sold him,
And soldier that slew him!
One glimpse of heaven’s light
May they see never!
May the hearthstone of hell
Be their best bed for ever!
In the hole which the vile hands
Of soldiers had made thee,
Unhonour’d, unshrouded,
And headless they laid thee;
No sigh to regret thee,
No eye to rain o’er thee,
No dirge to lament thee,
No friend to deplore thee!
Dear head of my darling,
How gory and pale
The
se aged eyes see thee,
High spiked on their gaol!
That cheek in the summer sun
Ne’er shall grow warm;
Nor that eye e’er catch light,
But the flash of the storm.
A curse, blessed ocean,
Is on thy green water,
From the haven of Cork
To Ivera of slaughter:
Since thy billows were dyed
With the red wounds of fear,
Of Muiertach Oge,
Our O’Sullivan Bear!
Jeremiah Joseph Callanan
The Convict of Clonmel
How hard is my fortune,
And vain my repining!
The strong rope of fate
For this young neck is twining.
My strength is departed,
My cheek sunk and sallow,
While I languish in chains
In the gaol of Clonmala.
No boy in the village
Was ever yet milder.
I’d play with a child,
And my sport would be wilder;
I’d dance without tiring
From morning till even,
And the goal-ball I’d strike
To the lightning of heaven.
At my bed-foot decaying,
My hurlbat is lying;
Thro’ the boys of the village
My goal-ball is flying;
My horse ’mong the neighbours
Neglected may fallow,
While I pine in my chains
In the gaol of Clonmala.
Next Sunday the patron
At home will be keeping,
And the young active hurlers
The field will be sweeping;
With the dance of fair maidens
The evening they’ll hallow,
While this heart, once so gay,
Shall be cold in Clonmala.
Jeremiah Joseph Callanan
SEÁN Ó NEACHTAIN
(c.1650–1729)
Proposal to Úna Ní Bhroin
Glad I’d go to the wood with you, girl of the gold curls
and see the birds there in sweet-throated session:
the nightingale will play fiddle, the thrush a whistle
the blackbird accompany himself on the harp,
his dun mate on the organ, the wren wake a lute
the laverock and titmouse on tabor and snare.
Parked on a green bough, the trumpeter sparrow
will strike up a hot number all for your love.
Woodpigeon and turtle will chortle together
starling and fieldfare trotting nearby
the cuckoo will seek just one shy keek
of you, and the corncrake’s your boon friend.
Echoes at our shoulders relay merry laughter
women from the raths and the mounds ply their strings
everything you could think to wish for, my minx,
is yours, and my love will never depart you.
Daylight will drench us, down through the branches
orient drops upon them sparkle and play
you the chattering music of water, while the otter
and the fish writhe together, intricately.
Kit Fryatt
ÚNA NÍ BHROIN
(d.c.1706)
Reply to Seán Ó Neachtain’s Proposal
From the time that I gave you my hand and my promise
And my love, too, forever, young Seán of the Neachtains
The advice of my friends could never divide us
– For you I’d abandon the halls of the angels.
Oh, love, a whole year I could go, I declare,
Without one bite of food or one round drop of drink,
My mouth on your mouth, love, and my hands in your hair
– Your love-talk would soon have us both in the pink.
I will leave with you now and will make no excuses
But lie down and listen to the small birds at play
– One hundred times better than feasting in castles –
My firm love, my darling, how can I say Nay?
PC
TOIRDHEALBHACH Ó CEARBHALLÁIN
(1670–1738)
Mabel Kelly
Lucky the husband
Who puts his hand beneath her head.
They kiss without scandal
Happiest two near feather-bed.
He sees the tumble of brown hair
Unplait, the breasts, pointed and bare
When nightdress shows
From dimple to toe-nail,
All Mabel glowing in it, here, there, everywhere.
Music might listen
To her least whisper,
Learn every note, for all are true.
While she is speaking,
Her voice goes sweetly
To charm the herons in their musing.
Her eyes are modest, blue, their darkness
Small rooms of thought, but when they sparkle
Upon a feast-day,
Glasses are meeting,
Each raised to Mabel Kelly, our toast and darling.
Gone now are many Irish ladies
Who kissed and fondled, their very pet-names
Forgotten, their tibia degraded.
She takes their sky. Her smile is famed.
Her praise is scored by quill and pencil.
Harp and spinet
Are in her debt
And when she plays or sings, melody is content.
No man who sees her
Will feel uneasy.
He goes his way, head high, however tired.
Lamp loses light
When placed beside her.
She is the pearl and being of all Ireland:
Foot, hand, eye, mouth, breast, thigh and instep, all that we desire.
Tresses that pass small curls as if to touch the ground;
So many prizes
Are not divided.
Her beauty is her own and she is not proud.
Austin Clarke
Peggy Browne
The dark-haired girl, who holds my thought entirely
Yet keeps me from her arms and what I desire,
Will never take my word for she is proud
And none may have his way with Peggy Browne.
Often I dream that I am in the woods
At Westport House. She strays alone, blue-hooded,
Then lifts her flounces, hurries from a shower,
But sunlight stays all day with Peggy Browne.
Her voice is music, every little echo
My pleasure and O her shapely breasts, I know,
Are white as her own milk, when taffeta gown
Is let out, inch by inch, for Peggy Browne.
A lawless dream comes to me in the night-time,
That we are stretching together side by side,
Nothing I want to do can make her frown.
I wake alone, sighing for Peggy Browne.
Austin Clarke
CATHAL BUÍ MAC GIOLLA GHUNNA
(c.1680–1756)
The Yellow Bittern
Yellow bittern, I’m sad it’s over.
Your bones are frozen and all caved in.
It wasn’t hunger but thirst and craving
That left you foundering on the shore.
What odds is it now about Troy’s destruction
With you on the flagstones upside down,
Who never injured or hurt a creature
And preferred bog-water to any wine?
Bittern, bittern, your end was awful,
Your perished skull there on the road,
You that would call me every morning
With your gargler’s song as you guzzled mud.
And that’s what’s ahead of your brother Cahal
(You know what they say about me and the stuff),
But they’ve got it wrong, and the truth is simple:
A drop would have saved that croaker’s life.
>
I am saddened, bittern, and broken-hearted
To find you in scrags in the rushy tufts
And the big rats scampering down the ratpaths
To wake your carcass and have their fun.
If you could have got word to me in time, bird,
That you were in trouble and craved a sup
I’d have struck the fetters off those lough waters
And have wet your thrapple with the blow I struck.
Your common birds do not concern me,
The blackbird, say, or the thrush or crane,
But the yellow bittern, my heartsome namesake
With my looks and locks, he’s the one I mourn.
Constantly he was drinking, drinking,
And by all accounts I am just the same,
But every drop I get I’ll down it
For fear I might get my end from drouth.
The woman I love says to give it up now
Or else I’ll go to an early grave,
But I say no and keep resisting
For taking drink’s what prolongs your days.
You saw for yourselves a while ago
What happened the bird when its throat went dry;
So, my friends and neighbours, let it flow:
You’ll be stood no rounds in eternity.
Seamus Heaney
PEADAR Ó DOIRNÍN
The Green Hill of Cian, Son of Cáinte
Flower of maidens of fairest face,
Famed for human splendour;
Head of curls, beloved of poets
Enhances warmth and welcome;
Face as the sun each bright new dawn,
Banishes grief with laughter;
It is my sad woe, love, that we’re not alone,
In that fort of Cian, son of Cáinte.
I’m deep now in pain, sleepless, awake,
Longing for you, fairest maiden;
It’s you I prefer in all of Éireann,
I deny not one whit, for that reason;
If you were to walk with me, unblemished star,
My health would be light and carefree,
You’ll get flower and mead and the fruit of trees,
In the fort of Cian, son of Cáinte.
The call of the hounds you will hear as they chase
The wide-haunched, swift-legged hare;
The cuckoo’s sweet voice and sound of thrush
Joyful on boughs in the dales;
In the pond, calm and cool, you will see fish in shoals,
Swimming and chasing each other,
And beyond you can see in the distance, the bay,
From the fort of Cian, son of Cáinte.
My gentle sweet girl, it is better you’d fare,
The Penguin Book of Irish Poetry Page 37
