The Kiltartan Poetry Book Part 3

But you were of those three that went across to Kilcomin, ferrying Father Peter, who was three-and-eighty years old; if you came back within a month itself, I would be well content; but is it not a pity I to be lonely, and my first love in the waves?

I would not begrudge you, O'Reilly, to be kinsman to a king, white bright courts around you, and you lying at your ease; a quiet, well-learned lady to be settling out your pillow; but it is a great thing you to die from me when I had given you my love entirely.

It is no wonder a broken heart to be with your father and your mother; the white-breasted mother that crooned you, and you a baby; your wedded wife, O thousand treasures, that never set out your bed; and the day you went to Trabawn, how well it failed you to come home.

Your eyes are with the eels, and your lips with the crabs; and your two white hands under the sharp rule of the salmon. Five pounds I would give to him that would find my true love. Ochone! it is you are a sharp grief to young Mary ni-Curtain!

_A Poem Written in Time of Trouble by an Irish Priest Who Had Taken Orders in France_

My thoughts, my grief! are without strength My spirit is journeying towards death My eyes are as a frozen sea My tears my daily food; There is nothing in life but only misery.

My poor heart is torn And my thoughts are sharp wounds within me, Mourning the miserable state of Ireland.

Misfortune has come upon us all together The poor, the rich, the weak and the strong The great lord by whom hundreds were maintained The powerful strong man, and the man that holds the plough; And the cross laid on the bare shoulder of every man.

Our feasts are without any voice of priests And none at them but women lamenting Tearing their hair with troubled minds Keening miserably after the Fenians.

The pipes of our organs are broken Our harps have lost their strings that were tuned That might have made the great lamentations of Ireland.

Until the strong men come back across the sea There is no help for us but bitter crying, Screams, and beating of hands, and calling out.

I do not know of anything under the sky That is friendly or favourable to the Gael

But only the sea that our need brings us to, Or the wind that blows to the harbour The s.h.i.+p that is bearing us away from Ireland; And there is reason that these are reconciled with us, For we increase the sea with our tears And the wandering wind with our sighs.

_The Heart of the Wood_

My hope and my love, we will go for a while into the wood, scattering the dew, where we will see the trout, we will see the blackbird on its nest; the deer and the buck calling, the little bird that is sweetest singing on the branches; the cuckoo on the top of the fresh green; and death will never come near us for ever in the sweet wood.

_An Craoibhin Complains Because He Is a Poet_

It's my grief that I am not a little white duck, And I'd swim over the sea to France or to Spain; I would not stay in Ireland for one week only, To be without eating, without drinking, without a full jug.

Without a full jug, without eating, without drinking, Without a feast to get, without wine, without meat, Without high dances, without a big name, without music; There is hunger on me, and I astray this long time.

It's my grief that I am not an old crow, I would sit for awhile up on the old branch, I could satisfy my hunger, and I not as I am With a grain of oats or a white potato

It's my grief that I am not a red fox, Leaping strong and swift on the mountains, Eating c.o.c.ks and hens without pity, Taking ducks and geese as a conquerer.

It's my grief that I am not a bright salmon, Going through the strong full water, Catching the mayflies by my craft, Swimming at my choice, and swimming with the stream

It's my grief that I am of the race of the poets; It would be better for me to be a high rock, Or a stone or a tree or an herb or a flower Or anything at all but the thing that I am!

_He Cries Out Against Love_

There are three fine devils eating my heart-- They left me, my grief! without a thing; Sickness wrought, and Love wrought, And an empty pocket, my ruin and my woe.

Poverty left me without a s.h.i.+rt, Barefooted, barelegged, without any covering; Sickness left me with my head weak And my body miserable, an ugly thing.

Love left me like a coal upon the floor, Like a half-burned sod that is never put out.

Worse than the cough, worse than the fever itself, Worse than any curse at all under the sun, Worse than the great poverty Is the devil that is called "Love" by the people.

And if I were in my young youth again I would not take, or give, or ask for a kiss!

_He Meditates on the Life of a Rich Man_

A golden cradle under you, and you young; A right mother and a strong kiss.

A lively horse, and you a boy; A school and learning and close companions.

A beautiful wife, and you a man; A wide house and everything that is good.

A fine wife, children, substance; Cattle, means, herds and flocks.

A place to sit, a place to lie down; Plenty of food and plenty of drink.

After that, an old man among old men; Respect on you and honour on you.

Head of the court, of the jury, of the meeting, And the counsellors not the worse for having you.

At the end of your days death, and then Hiding away; the boards and the church.

What are you better after to-night Than Ned the beggar or Seaghan the fool?

_Forgaill's Praise of Columcille_

This now is the poem of praise and of lamentation that was made for Columcille, Speckled Salmon of the Boyne, High Saint of the Gael, by Forgaill that was afterwards called Blind Forgaill, Chief Poet of Ireland:

It is not a little story this is; it is not a story about a fool it is; it is not one district that is keening but every district, with a great sound that is not to be borne, hearing the story of Columcille, without life, without a church.