The Penguin Book of Irish Poetry

by Patrick Crotty (ed)

  Those shady bowers,

  ’Tis there the courtier

  He may transport her

  Into some fort, or

  All under ground.

  For ’tis there’s a cave where

  No daylight enters,

  But cats and badgers

  Are for ever bred;

  Being mossed by nature,

  That makes it sweeter

  Than a coach-and-six or

  A feather bed.

  ’Tis there the lake is,

  Well stored with perches,

  And comely eels in

  The verdant mud;

  Besides the leeches,

  And groves of beeches,

  Standing in order

  For to guard the flood.

  There’s statues gracing

  This noble place in –

  All heathen gods

  And nymphs so fair;

  Bold Neptune, Plutarch,

  And Nicodemus,

  All standing naked

  In the open air!

  So now to finish

  This brave narration,

  Which my poor genii

  Could not entwine;

  But were I Homer,

  Or Nebuchadnezzar,

  ’Tis in every feature

  I would make it shine.

  ANONYMOUS

  The Boyne Water

  July the first, of a morning clear, one thousand six hundred and ninety,

  King William did his men prepare, of thousands he had thirty,

  To fight King James and all his foes, encamped near the Boyne Water;

  He little feared, though two to one, their multitude to scatter.

  King William called his officers, saying, ‘Gentlemen, mind your station,

  And let your valour here be shown before this Irish nation;

  My brazen walls let no man break, and your subtle foes you’ll scatter,

  Be sure you show them good English play as you go over the water.’

  Both foot and horse they marched on, intending them to batter,

  But the brave Duke Schomberg he was shot as he crossed over the water.

  When that King William did observe the brave Duke Schomberg falling,

  He reined his horse with a heavy heart, on the Enniskilleners calling:

  ‘What will you do for me, brave boys see yonder men retreating?

  Our enemies encouraged are, and English drums are beating.’

  He says, ‘My boys feel no dismay at the losing of one commander,

  For God shall be our King this day, and I’ll be general under.’

  Within four yards of our forefront, before a shot was fired,

  A sudden snuff they got that day, which little they desired;

  For horse and man fell to the ground, and some hung on their saddle:

  Others turned up their forked ends, which we call coup de ladle.

  Prince Eugene’s regiment was the next, on our right hand advanced

  Into a field of standing wheat, where Irish horses pranced;

  But the brandy ran so in their heads, their senses all did scatter,

  They little thought to leave their bones that day at the Boyne Water.

  Both men and horse lay on the ground, and many lay there bleeding,

  I saw no sickles there that day but, sure, there was sharp shearing.

  Now, praise God, all true Protestants, and heaven’s and earth’s Creator,

  For the deliverance he sent our enemies to scatter.

  The Church’s foes will pine away, like churlish-hearted Nabal,

  For our deliverer came this day like the great Zorobabal.

  So praise God, all true Protestants, and I will say no further,

  But had the Papists gained that day, there would have been open murder.

  Although King James and many more were ne’er that way inclined,

  It was not in their power to stop what the rabble they designed.

  Shule Aroon

  I would I were on yonder hill,

  ’Tis there I’d sit and cry my fill,

  And every tear would turn a mill,

  Is go d-teidh tu, a mhúrnín, slán!

  Siubhail, siubhail, siubhail, a rúin!

  Siubhail go socair, agus siubhail go ciúin,

  Siubhail go d-ti an doras agus eulaigh liom,

  Is go d-teidh tu, a mhúrnín, slán!fn1

  I’ll sell my rock, I’ll sell my reel,

  I’ll sell my only spinning-wheel,

  To buy for my love a sword of steel,

  Is go d-teidh tu, a mhúrnín, slán!

  Siubhail, siubhail, siubhail, a rúin!

  Siubhail go socair, agus siubhail go ciúin,

  Siubhail go d-ti an doras agus eulaigh liom,

  Is go d-teidh tu, a mhúrnín, slán!

  I’ll dye my petticoats, I’ll dye them red,

  And round the world I’ll beg my bread,

  Until my parents shall wish me dead,

  Is go d-teidh tu, a mhúrnín, slán!

  Siubhail, siubhail, siubhail, a rúin!

  Siubhail go socair, agus siubhail go ciúin,

  Siubhail go d-ti an doras agus eulaigh liom,

  Is go d-teidh tu, a mhúrnín, slán!

  I wish, I wish, I wish in vain,

  I wish I had my heart again,

  And vainly think I’d not complain,

  Is go d-teidh tu, a mhúrnín, slán!

  Siubhail, siubhail, siubhail, a rúin!

  Siubhail go socair, agus siubhail go ciúin,

  Siubhail go d-ti an doras agus eulaigh liom,

  Is go d-teidh tu, a mhúrnín, slán!

  But now my love has gone to France,

  To try his fortune to advance;

  If he e’er come back, ’tis but a chance,

  Is go d-teidh tu, a mhúrnín, slán!

  Siubhail, siubhail, siubhail, a rúin!

  Siubhail go socair, agus siubhail go ciúin,

  Siubhail go d-ti an doras agus eulaigh liom,

  Is go d-teidh tu, a mhúrnín, slán!

  My Love is Like the Sun

  The winter is past,

  And the summer’s come at last

  And the blackbirds sing in every tree;

  The hearts of these are glad

  But my poor heart is sad,

  For my true love is parted from me.

  The rose upon the briar

  By the water running clear

  Gives joy to the linnet and the bee;

  Their little hearts are blest

  But mine is not at rest,

  Since my true love is absent from me.

  A livery I’ll wear

  And I’ll comb out my hair,

  And in velvet so green I will appear,

  And straight I will repair

  To the Curragh of Kildare

  For it’s there I’ll find tidings of my dear.

  I’ll wear a cap of black

  With a frill around my neck,

  Gold rings on my fingers I will wear:

  And this I’ll undertake

  All for my true love’s sake,

  Who resides at the Curragh of Kildare.

  I would not think it strange

  The whole wide world to range

  In search of tidings of my dear;

  But here in Cupid’s chain

  I am bound to remain,

  And to spend my whole life in despair.

  My love is like the sun

  That in the firmament does run,

  And always proves constant and true;

  But he is like the moon

  That wanders up and down,

  The moon that every month is new.

  All ye that are in love

  And cannot it remove,

  I pity the pains you endure;

  For experience lets me know

  That your hearts are full of woe,

  A woe that no mortal can cure.

  The Blackbird

  Upon a fa
ir morning for soft recreation,

  I heard a fair lady making her moan,

  With sighing and sobbing and sad lamentation,

  Saying, my Blackbird most royal is flown;

  My thoughts they deceive me,

  Reflections do grieve me,

  And I am over-burdened with sad misery,

  Yet if death it should blind me,

  As true love inclines me,

  My Blackbird I’ll seek out wherever he be.

  Once in fair England my Blackbird did flourish,

  He was the chief flower that in it did spring –

  Prime ladies of honour his person did nourish,

  Because he was the true son of a king.

  But this false fortune,

  Which still is uncertain,

  Has caused this parting between him and me,

  His name I’ll advance

  In Spain and in France,

  And seek out my Blackbird, wherever he be.

  The birds of the forest they all met together –

  The turtle was chosen to dwell with the dove,

  And I am resolved in fair or foul weather

  To seek out until I find my true love;

  He’s all my heart’s treasure,

  My joy and my pleasure

  And justly, my love, my heart will follow thee,

  Who is constant and kind,

  And courageous of mind,

  All bliss to my Blackbird wherever he be.

  In England my Blackbird and I were together,

  Where he was still noble and generous of heart,

  And woe to the time that he first went thither,

  Alas, he was forced from thence to depart.

  In Scotland he is deemed,

  And highly esteemed,

  In England he seemed a stranger to be,

  Yet his name shall remain

  In France and in Spain,

  All bliss to my Blackbird, wherever he be.

  What if the fowler my Blackbird has taken?

  Then sighing and sobbing shall be all my tune;

  But if he is safe, I will not be forsaken,

  And hope yet to see him in May or in June.

  For him through the fire,

  Through mud and through mire

  I’ll go, for I love him to such a degree,

  Who is generous and kind,

  And noble of mind,

  Deserving all blessings wherever he be.

  It is not the ocean can fright me with danger,

  For though like a pilgrim I wander forlorn

  I may meet with friendship from one that’s a stranger

  More than from one that in England was born.

  Oh! Heaven so spacious,

  To Britain be gracious,

  Though some there be odious both to him and me,

  Yet joy and renown

  And laurel shall crown

  My Blackbird with honour wherever he be.

  The Night before Larry was Stretched

  The night before Larry was stretched,

  The boys they all paid him a visit;

  A bait in their sacks, too, they fetched;

  They sweated their duds till they riz it:

  For Larry was ever the lad,

  When a boy was condemned to the squeezer,

  Would fence all the duds that he had

  To help a poor friend to a sneezer,

  And warm his gob ’fore he died.

  The boys they came crowding in fast,

  They drew all their stools round about him,

  Six glims round his trap-case were placed,

  He couldn’t be well waked without ’em.

  When one of us asked could he die

  Without having duly repented,

  Says Larry, ‘That’s all in my eye;

  And first by the clargy invented,

  To get a fat bit for themselves.’

  ‘I’m sorry, dear Larry,’ says I,

  ‘To see you in this situation;

  And, blister my limbs if I lie,

  I’d as lieve it had been my own station.’

  ‘Ochone! it’s all over,’ says he,

  ‘For the neckcloth I’ll be forced to put on,

  And by this time tomorrow you’ll see

  Your poor Larry as dead as a mutton,

  Because, why, his courage was good.

  ‘And I’ll be cut up like a pie,

  And my nob from my body be parted.’

  ‘You’re in the wrong box, then,’ says I,

  ‘For blast me if they’re so hard-hearted:

  A chalk on the back of your neck

  Is all that Jack Ketch dares to give you;

  Then mind not such trifles a feck,

  For why should the likes of them grieve you?

  And now, boys, come tip us the deck.’

  The cards being called for, they played,

  Till Larry found one of them cheated;

  A dart at his napper he made

  (The boy being easily heated):

  ‘Oh, by the hokey, you thief,

  I’ll scuttle your nob with my daddle!

  You cheat me because I’m in grief,

  But soon I’ll demolish your noddle,

  And leave you your claret to drink.’

  Then the clergy came in with his book,

  He spoke him so smooth and so civil;

  Larry tipped him a Kilmainham look,

  And pitched his big wig to the devil;

  Then sighing, he threw back his head

  To get a sweet drop of the bottle,

  And pitiful sighing, he said:

  ‘Oh, the hemp will be soon round my throttle

  And choke my poor windpipe to death.

  ‘Though sure it’s the best way to die,

  Oh, the devil a better a-livin’!

  For, sure, when the gallows is high

  Your journey is shorter to Heaven:

  But what harasses Larry the most,

  And makes his poor soul melancholy,

  Is to think of the time when his ghost

  Will come in a sheet to sweet Molly –

  Oh, sure it will kill her alive!’

  So moving these last words he spoke,

  We all vented our tears in a shower;

  For my part, I thought my heart broke,

  To see him cut down like a flower.

  On his travels we watched him next day;

  Oh, the throttler! I thought I could kill him;

  But Larry not one word did say,

  Nor changed till he come to ‘King William’ –

  Then, musha! his colour grew white.

  When he came to the nubbling chit,

  He was tucked up so neat and so pretty,

  The rumbler jogged off from his feet,

  And he died with his face to the city;

  He kicked, too – but that was all pride,

  For soon you might see ’twas all over;

  Soon after the noose was untied,

  And at darky we waked him in clover,

  And sent him to take a ground sweat.

  Willy Reilly

  ‘Oh! rise up, Willy Reilly, and come along with me,

  I mean for to go with you and leave this counterie,

  To leave my father’s dwelling, his houses and free land.’

  And away goes Willy Reilly and his dear Coolen Ban.

  They go by hills and mountains, and by yon lonesome plain,

  Through shady groves and valleys, all dangers to refrain;

  But her father followed after with a well-armed band,

  And taken was poor Reilly and his dear Coolen Ban.

  It’s home then she was taken, and in her closet bound;

  Poor Reilly all in Sligo jail lay on the stony ground,

  Till at the bar of justice, before the Judge he’d stand,

  For nothing but the stealing of his dear Coolen Ban.

  ‘Now in the cold, cold iron my hands and feet are bound,
/>   I’m handcuffed like a murderer, and tied unto the ground.

  But all the toil and slavery I’m willing for to stand,

  Still hoping to be succoured by my dear Coolen Ban.’

  The jailor’s son to Reilly goes, and thus to him did say:

  ‘Oh! get up, Willy Reilly, you must appear this day,

  For great Squire Foillard’s anger you never can withstand,

  I’m afeer’d you’ll suffer sorely for your dear Coolen Ban.

  ‘This is the news, young Reilly, last night that I did hear:

  The lady’s oath will hang you or else will set you clear.’

  ‘If that be so,’ says Reilly, ‘her pleasure I will stand,

  Still hoping to be succoured by my dear Coolen Ban.’

  Now Willy’s drest from top to toe all in a suit of green,

  His hair hangs o’er his shoulders most glorious to be seen;

  He’s tall and straight, and comely as any could be found;

  He’s fit for Foillard’s daughter, was she heiress to a crown.

  The Judge he said: ‘This lady being in her tender youth,

  If Reilly has deluded her she will declare the truth.’

  Then, like a moving beauty bright, before him she did stand,

  ‘You’re welcome there, my heart’s delight and dear Coolen Ban.’

  ‘Oh, gentlemen,’ Squire Foillard said, ‘with pity look on me,

  This villain came amongst us to disgrace our family,

  And by his base contrivances this villainy was planned;

  If I don’t get satisfaction I’ll quit this Irish land.’

  The lady with a tear began, and thus replied she:

  ‘The fault is none of Reilly’s, the blame lies all on me;

  I forced him for to leave his place and come along with me;

  I loved him out of measure, which wrought our destiny.’

  Out bespoke the noble Fox, at the table he stood by:

  ‘Oh, gentlemen, consider on this extremity;

  To hang a man for love is a murder, you may see:

  So spare the life of Reilly, let him leave this counterie.’

  ‘Good my lord, he stole from her her diamonds and her rings,

  Gold watch and silver buckles, and many precious things,

  Which cost me in bright guineas more than five hundred pounds,

  I’ll have the life of Reilly should I lose ten thousand pounds.’

  ‘Good my lord, I gave them him as tokens of true love,

  And when we are a-parting I will them all remove;

  If you have got them, Reilly, pray send them home to me.’

  ‘I will, my loving lady, with many thanks to thee.’

  ‘There is a ring among them I allow yourself to wear,

  With thirty locket diamonds well set in silver fair,