To spend your young life with me there,
Than sad in a corner with a miserly boor,
At your spinning-wheel and carders;
You’ll have sweet music played nimbly on harpstrings
To awake you, and love poems, thereafter;
There’s no fort on earth as airy and bright
As the hill of Cian, son of Cáinte.
Charming sweet lass of the pearled curling tresses,
Come out later on in the night,
When the people and clergy are deep in slumber
Asleep beneath linens white;
Far north we will both be, away from them all,
At the break of tomorrow’s new dawn,
Together and fearless in sweet isolation
In the cave of Cian, son of Cáinte.
‘Away with your pleading – though much you have stated –
A habit of interest to many;
And the finest of gifts, than a great many jewels,
I have never heard you relating;
Free holdings there of cows and sheep
And hoards of pearls in palaces,
Its worth I receive not without a device
Used at night time, for making children.’
Pádraigín Ní Uallacháin
DONNCHADH RUA MAC CON MARA
The Fair Hills of Ireland
A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer,
Uileacan dubhfn1 O!
Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear;
Uileacan dubh O!
There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand,
And her forest paths, in summer, are by falling waters fann’d,
There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i’ the yellow sand,
On the fair hills of holy Ireland.
Curl’d he is and ringletted, and plaited to the knee,
Uileacan dubh O!
Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish sea,
Uileacan dubh O!
And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand,
Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand,
And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command,
For the fair hills of holy Ireland.
Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground,
Uileacan dubh O!
The butter and the cream do wondrously abound,
Uileacan dubh O!
The cresses on the water and the sorrels are at hand,
And the cuckoo’s calling daily his note of music bland,
And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song i’ the forests grand,
On the fair hills of holy Ireland.
Samuel Ferguson
ART MAC CUMHAIGH
(c.1738–73)
The Churchyard of Creggan
HE
By the Churchyard of Creggan I lay last night in misery,
And at dawn a fair queenly one up and saluted me.
Her hair it shone golden, her cheeks blushed fiery:
’Twas a tonic for mankind just to look on her beauty.
SHE
Kind sir, don’t loiter with your mind in a mist,
But get up, keep me company on the road to the west,
Through sweet lands never gripped by the outlander’s fist,
Be fêted in great halls, and by music caressed.
HE
Honey queen, are you Helen, who wrought such distress,
Or one of the nine Parnassians, decked out in fleshly dress?
Where on earth were you reared, a star all so cloudless,
That you ask me to pipe as you make stately progress?
SHE
Enough questions there! I don’t couch this side of Boyne,
I was fostered by Gráinne Óg since a halfling bairn,
Among the schools of poets, I’m liberal with song,
At twilight in Tara or at daybreak in Tyrone.
HE
Great pity the loss of the Gaels of Tyrone,
The heirs of the Fews lie in grief under stone,
They never forsook music, Niall Frasach’s pure scions,
But at Christmas gave us coats in exchange for praise-poems.
SHE
The tribes fell at Aughrim, at Boyne were low laid,
The crowned sons of Ír, the shelter of the priesthood.
Wouldn’t you sooner be in my green hill each noontide,
Than have Bully’s Orange shaft ever lodged in your side?
HE
I’d not refuse you, not for an emperor’s ransom,
Except for the friends that I’d leave here at home,
And the wife I wooed with promises handsome,
If I left her now, she would grieve me and groan.
SHE
I don’t think your friends are true friends at all,
To leave you thus ragged, poor and distressful,
Better to come along now – take my hand smooth and small –
Than to have your verses met with sneers and catcalls.
HE
My heart, what destiny decrees, I can’t but obey,
But vouchsafe me this, as we set out on our way,
If I die by Shannon, on Manannaun’s shore, or in grand Egypt, say
That you’ll bury me, Gael with Gael, in Creggan’s cold clay.
Kit Fryatt
EOGHAN RUA Ó SÚILLEABHÁIN
The Volatile Kerryman
OWEN
I travelled the land from Leap to Corbally
From bright Glandore to sweet Roscarbery,
Oh-roh! and to Cashel of sloes.
Fairs twice a week there on Thursday and Saturday,
High and low Masses there sung by the clergy,
Tankards and quarts full of wine and brandy,
Fine young women to keep you handy,
Oh-roh! ’tis Heaven below.
GIRL
That would be the poor day if I ran away with you,
’Tis a rake of your like that would make me play with you,
Oh-roh! ’Twould be madness to go!
Oh, my father won’t mind if you say you’ll marry me,
But he’ll murder us both if to Kerry you carry me,
Oh-roh! with a terrible blow.
But if you give your oath that you’ll never stray from me
I’ll buy you strong drink that will coax you to stay with me.
Make up your mind and say you’ll come home with me, (Coaxing)
Make up your mind and say you’ll come home with me,
Oh-roh! And my fortune you’ll own.
OWEN
Oh, there’s no place on earth that I wouldn’t go with you,
And I’d fit out a ship if I thought ’twould pleasure you,
Oh-roh! O’er the ocean we’d go.
I would carry you with me across to Germany,
In Venice or Rome we’d have wine and company,
Come and be brave! Don’t be afraid of me! (Coaxing)
Come and be nice, and travel away with me.
Oh-roh! my darling, my own.
GIRL
Oh, I’d travel the world and Newfoundland with you,
And to see foreign countries would surely be grand with you,
Oh-roh! ’tis happy I’d go.
But to wed me your promise I must be certain of,
And to live out our lives in sweet contentment, love,
Oh-roh! ’tis you I adore.
OWEN
Here is my hand in your hand to hold with you,
To bind us for life so that I’ll grow old with you,
Our engagement is made now, and love in my heart for you,
There’s a half of my soul that will never part from you.
Oh-roh! while the world shall roll.
GIRL
If I follow you close to the slopes of Carbery,
My senses I’ll lose if you don’t come home with
me,
Oh-roh! the teardrops will flow.
OWEN
Bring a purseful of gold for the road along with you,
For money’s no load when ’tis golden sovereigns,
Oh-roh! to spend as we roam.
GIRL
Your hands will be soft without trace of work on them
No digging potatoes or cutting turf with them,
OWEN
There’ll be dancing all night, and drinking and devilment;
GIRL
Music and whiskey,
OWEN
For money makes merriment,
BOTH
Oh-roh! ’tis the Devil’s own sport.
GIRL
But you’re telling me lies, you don’t mean the half of it,
Coaxing me now, and in a while you’ll laugh at it,
Oh-roh! ’Twould make me a show.
OWEN
Oh love of my heart, my dear, pay heed to me,
I wouldn’t deceive you for Ireland free to me.
For fear it would lead me to Hell’s black deanery,
Sweet and dear will you always be to me,
Oh-roh! ’til in the coffin I go.
GIRL
Don’t mention the coffin, bad luck to speak of it,
But talk of fine sport for ’tis we’ll be seeking it,
Oh-roh! and adventures galore!
Call in the neighbours, there’s barrels of porter full
And we’ll make a great noise will be heard in Waterford.
Oh-roh! while the world shall roll!
Oh, I’d rather your love than the riches of Solomon,
Acres of cattle or valleys of singing birds,
I’ve made up my mind, and the Pope couldn’t change it now,
I’d give you the world if I could arrange it now.
Oh-roh! my darling, my own!
OWEN
A fortnight spent travelling far and wide with her,
Making up songs for her, telling lies to her,
Oh-roh! to keep her aglow,
’Til the last golden sovereign I winkled out of her,
Sweetly and easily, never a shout from her,
Oh-roh! indeed money’s no load!
Oh, ’twas smartly I settled my beaver hat on me,
The blackthorn stick and the coat that flattered me,
And over the ditches I fled like a bat from her,
Home to Kerry, like a scalded cat from her,
Oh-roh! while she trotted below.
As nightfall came on, she was most astonished
To see that her darling had totally vanished –
Oh-roh! with a great hullagone!
She tore at her hair like a raving lunatic,
She swore I betrayed her and fairly ruined her,
GIRL
Oh-roh! He’s gone with my gold.
Where is he now, oh where is that vagabond?
Make haste and be after him, carry him back to me,
That cursed rogue, that blathering Kerryman,
Breaking my heart with his rakish merriment,
Oh-roh!
OWEN
and it’s goodbye to Owen!
Seán Ó Riada
English
NAHUM TATE
While Shepherds Watched their Flocks by Night
While Shepherds watched their Flocks by Night,
All seated on the Ground,
The Angel of the Lord came down,
And Glory shone around.
‘Fear not,’ said he, (for mighty dread
Had seized their troubled mind);
‘Glad Tidings of great Joy I bring
To you and all Mankind.
To you in David’s town this day
Is born of David’s line
The Saviour who is Christ the Lord,
And this shall be the sign:
The heavenly Babe you there shall find
To human view displayed,
All meanly wrapped in swathing bands
And in a Manger laid.’
Thus spake the Seraph, and forthwith
Appeared a shining Throng
Of Angels praising God, who thus
Addressed their joyful Song:
‘All glory be to God on high
And on the Earth be Peace;
Goodwill henceforth from Heaven to men
Begin and never cease.’
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
from She Stoops to Conquer
Song
Let schoolmasters puzzle their brain,
With grammar and nonsense and learning;
Good liquor, I stoutly maintain,
Gives genius a better discerning.
Let them brag of their heathenish gods,
Their Lethes, their Styxes and Stygians,
Their Quis and their Quaes and their Quods –
They’re all but a parcel of pigeons.
Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.
When Methodist preachers come down
A-preaching that drinking is sinful,
I’ll wager the rascals a crown
They always preach best with a skinful.
But when you come down with your pence
For a slice of their scurvy religion,
I’ll leave it to all men of sense –
But you, my good friend, are the pigeon.
Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.
Then come, put the jorum about,
And let us be merry and clever;
Our hearts and our liquors are stout:
Here’s the Three Jolly Pigeons forever.
Let some cry up woodcock or hare,
Your bustards, your ducks and your widgeons;
But of all the birds in the air,
Here’s a health to the Three Jolly Pigeons.
Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.
JOHN O’KEEFFE
(1747–1833)
Amo, Amas, I Love a Lass
Amo, amas,
I love a lass
As a cedar tall and slender;
Sweet cowslips’ grace
Is her Nominative Case,
And she’s of the Feminine Gender.
Rorum, corum, sunt Divorum,
Harum, scarum Divo!
Tag rag, merry derry, periwig and hatband,
Hic hac, horum Genetivo!
Can I decline
A nymph divine?
Her voice as a flute is dulcis,
Her oculi bright,
Her manus white,
And soft, when I tacto, her pulse is!
Rorum, corum, sunt Divorum,
Harum scarum Divo!
Tag rag, merry derry, periwig and hatband,
Hic hac, horum Genetivo!
O, how bella
Is my Puella!
I’ll kiss sæculorum!
If I’ve luck, Sir,
She’s my Uxor –
O, dies benedictorum!
Rorum, corum, sunt Divorum,
Harum scarum Divo!
Tag rag, merry derry, periwig and hatband,
Hic, hac, horum Genetivo!
JOHN PHILPOTT CURRAN
(1750–1817)
The Deserter’s Meditation
If sadly thinking, with spirits sinking,
Could, more than drinking, my cares compose,
A cure for sorrow from sighs I’d borrow,
And hope tomorrow would end my woes.
But as in wailing there’s nought availing,
And Death unfailing will strike the blow,
Then for that reason, and for a season,
Let us be merry before we go!
To joy a stranger, a wayworn ranger,
In ev’ry danger my course I’ve run;
Now hope all ending, and death befriending,
His last aid lending, my cares are done.
No more a rover, or hapless lover,
My griefs are over – my glass runs low;
Then for that reason, and for a season,
Let us be merry before we go!
RICHARD ALFRED MILLIKEN
(1767–1815)
The Groves of Blarney
The groves of Blarney
They look so charming,
Down by the purling
Of sweet, silent brooks,
Being banked with posies
That spontaneous grow there,
Planted in order
By the sweet ‘Rock Close’.
’Tis there the daisy
And the sweet carnation,
The blooming pink
And the rose so fair.
The daffodowndilly,
Likewise the lily,
All flowers that scent
The sweet, fragrant air.
’Tis Lady Jeffers
That owns this station;
Like Alexander,
Or Queen Helen fair,
There’s no commander
In all the nation,
For emulation,
Can with her compare.
Such walls surround her,
That no nine-pounder
Could dare to plunder
Her place of strength;
But Oliver Cromwell
Her he did pommell,
And made a breach
In her battlement.
There’s gravel walks there
For speculation
And conversation
In sweet solitude.
’Tis there the lover
May hear the dove, or
The gentle plover
In the afternoon;
And if a lady
Would be so engaging
As to walk alone in
The Penguin Book of Irish Poetry Page 38
