The Penguin Book of Irish Poetry Read online

  Three things that constitute a physician: a complete cure; leaving no blemish behind; a painless examination.

  Three things betokening trouble: holding plough-land in common; performing feats together; alliance in marriage.

  Three nurses of theft: a wood, a cloak, night.

  Three false sisters: ‘perhaps’, ‘maybe’, ‘I dare say.’

  Three timid brothers: ‘hush!’ ‘stop!’ ‘listen!’

  Three sounds of increase: the lowing of a cow in milk; the din of a smithy; the swish of a plough.

  Three steadinesses of good womanhood: keeping a steady tongue; a steady chastity; a steady housewifery.

  Three excellences of dress: elegance, comfort, lastingness.

  Three candles that illume every darkness: truth, nature, knowledge.

  Three keys that unlock thoughts: drunkenness, trustfulness, love.

  Three youthful sisters: desire, beauty, generosity.

  Three aged sisters: groaning, chastity, ugliness.

  Three nurses of high spirits: pride, wooing, drunkenness.

  Three coffers whose depth is not known: the coffers of a chieftain, of the Church, of a privileged poet.

  Three things that ruin wisdom: ignorance, inaccurate knowledge, forgetfulness.

  Three things that are best for a chief: justice, peace, an army. Three things that are worst for a chief: sloth, treachery, evil counsel.

  Three services, the worst that a man can serve: serving a bad woman, a bad lord, and bad land.

  Three lawful handbreadths: a handbreadth between shoes and hose, between ear and hair, and between the fringe of the tunic and the knee.

  Three angry sisters: blasphemy, strife, foul-mouthedness.

  Three disrespectful sisters: importunity, frivolity, flightiness.

  Three signs of a bad man: bitterness, hatred, cowardice.

  Kuno Meyer

  Negative Capability

  When I find myself with the elders

  I lay down the law against fun;

  when I wind up with the clubbers

  I go-go like the youngest one.

  PC

  Latin Poems by Clerics

  ‘HIBERNICUS EXUL’

  (fl. late 8th century)

  from Poet and Muse

  POET

  But tell me, great nurse of the venerable bards,

  will my praise songs last to the end of time?

  MUSE

  While the spangled arc of the sky wheels on its hub

  and the darkness of night flees before uprising planets

  and the day-star surges out of shadows to shine

  and strong winds batter the waves of the ocean

  and rivers run foaming on towards the sea

  and mountaintops threaten to brush against clouds

  and valleys lie humble in their dirt tracks

  and high hills flaunt their manly prows

  and the splendour of kings flares burnished in gold

  so long will the gift of the muses remain:

  for here become lasting the great deeds of kings

  and the things of today are made song for tomorrow

  and by the muses’ gift is praised the Creator,

  radiant with goodness in His heavenly home

  and pleased by our ceaseless, well-fitted verses;

  so remember to venerate the King with your gift

  while I on my pipe add music to your song.

  PC

  Teaching Methods

  (1) THE CARROT

  Now is the time for learning, boys; the right age doesn’t last

  But flees with the days rotated by the stars.

  As the swift stallion gallops reckless across the plain

  So youth speeds by without pausing for breath.

  Supple twigs will bend under the gentlest of pressure

  But stout branches snap if they are leaned on.

  So while your minds are still responsive, lads,

  Apply them to learning the high ways of God;

  Do not waste this lavish gift of childhood,

  For life without learning is not worth living.

  (2) THE STICK

  The lazy among you will be punished for their messing;

  No boy is safe, whatever his age:

  The older will suffer withdrawal of wine

  And the younger wince at the lash’s crack.

  I’d prefer, though, you all just did what you’re told,

  For those obedient to me have nothing to fear.

  PC

  COLMAN

  (fl. 9th century)

  St Brigit and the Sunbeam

  One day as rain pelted from the heavens

  thunder-clouds gathered out of nowhere in the sky,

  water streamed down in rich floods and a girl,

  in drenched clothes and as fast as her feet

  could carry her, hurried across plains

  and saturated pastures to her home, a girl

  long since by her old parents christened Brigit.

  Going to change her dripping dress she

  could find nowhere to hang the blessed thing

  when, from the little window as if by chance

  into the room glided a sunbright ray

  lighting the whole place and settling on her gown.

  Then someone there tried to trick

  the innocent girl and, nodding towards the ray

  as if it were oak, persuaded her

  to hang the dress from the tremulous beam.

  Though deceit was his aim the tender lass

  obeyed and, fitting it along the vibrant ray,

  spread the wet dress across the middle of the room;

  propped in vacant air by God’s will it hung

  suspended from the ray, wonderful to see, never

  breaking the golden-glowing light

  as it stood dripping, airing there

  as if stretched on a stout rope. All

  were astonished and spread the story round

  repeating the girl’s name and invoking Christ

  who not only held the dress aloft on lightest motes

  but by his majesty holds up the heavy world,

  who in the beginning of his Father’s power

  conjured the Earth out of nothing, to whom

  the stars submit, who is God’s

  eternal goodness, who at the Father’s right hand

  sits, light begotten of unbegotten light.

  These few of the many deeds that girl did

  through the wonderful gift of Christ

  learn from me, readers – the rest

  I leave to others after me to write down.

  PC

  JOHANNES SCOTTUS ÉRIUGENA

  (c. 815–c. 877)

  from ‘Homer sang once of his Greeks and his Trojans’

  Homer sang once of his Greeks and his Trojans

  and Virgil made poems about the people of Rome:

  the deeds sung here were done by the king

  to whom earth itself hums endless praise.

  Of the flames that levelled high Illium

  and boastful champions they loved to speak

  but world-vanquishing Christ, the bloodied martyr,

  is sole subject of our prayerful epic.

  They were skilled in making the false look true

  and knew how to delude in Arcadian verse

  but candid hymns are what we raise in tribute

  to the wisdom and excellence of the father.

  The blathering little playlets of the muses

  were all folk in the past got to applaud,

  but the acts of the prophets come artfully formed now

  harmonious out of our hearts, our mouths and our faith.

  Therefore let us fix the victories of Christ

  as the highest, brightest stars in our minds.

  See how the four corners of this earth

  are held together by the wood of the cross

  where the lord hung of his own a
ccord

  once the word of the father had taken on flesh

  and become our fitting sacrificial victim.

  Consider his pierced palms and feet, his shoulders,

  his temples crowned with spiteful thorns;

  from his side opens the spring of salvation

  and his blood, life’s balm, issues in a wave

  that cleanses the whole world of its ancient sin,

  making even us ungodly mortals godly.

  PC

  SEDULIUS SCOTTUS

  (fl. 840–60)

  Safe Arrival

  Shrinking from the blasts of scowling Boreas,

  we shiver under his stinging icy lash:

  the ground itself shakes, white-faced & afraid,

  ocean moans and hard rocks whimper.

  He threatens now the great spaces of the air

  with terrifying voice & thunderous roar;

  he hides milk-fleeced sky in menacing dark

  as earth stands speechless in her gown of snow;

  suddenly the hair is whipped from the forests

  and stout oaks tremble like things afraid;

  the sun, that once shone bright & resplendent,

  withdraws his rays and hides his face

  and terrible it is to see how Boreas

  humbles us scholars and pious priests:

  no respecter of rank or station, that wind-eagle

  picks and sorts us with his beak.

  Please Hartgar, great prelate, assist the afflicted,

  shine your heart on the scholarly Gael

  that blessèd you may stroll in heaven’s holy temples,

  Jerusalem the fair and eternal Sion.

  The mercy & serenity of that high prelate

  defied Boreas’s boasts and beat back his blasts;

  opening doors to the drenched & exhausted

  he plucked three scholars from the roaring wind

  and clothed and received all three with honour

  making us his grateful, his sheltered sheep.

  PC

  He Complains to Bishop Hartgar of Thirst

  The standing corn is green, the wild in flower,

  The vines are swelling, ’tis the sweet o’ the year,

  Bright-winged the birds, and heaven shrill with song,

  And laughing sea and earth and every star.

  But with it all, there’s never a drink for me,

  No wine, nor mead, nor even a drop of beer.

  Ah, how hath failed that substance manifold,

  Born of the kind earth and the dewy air!

  I am a writer, I, a musician, Orpheus the second,

  And the ox that treads out the corn, and your well-wisher I,

  I am your champion armed with the weapons of wisdom and logic,

  Muse, tell my lord bishop and father his servant is dry.

  Helen Waddell

  The Hospital

  If you want the gift of health you’d better run

  quick as a buck to this stately building;

  point your feet towards the hall of healing

  & discover secrets hidden from the Greeks.

  Once you’ve knocked back those life-saving draughts

  you’ll leave in a one-man victory parade.

  MOTHER MEDICINE

  This great queen comes down from stylish Olympus

  & dispenses her gifts to everyone;

  three lights shine on her well-bred face,

  victorious in battle over armies of pains.

  The milk from her breasts is soothing nectar

  to nurse to health innumerable crowds.

  Receive these gifts from Mother Medicine,

  souvenirs of her stay in Paradise:

  first, ointments that release incense more

  precious than fabled gold or myrrh;

  second, antidotes that glitter in rows,

  poised to expel injurious spirits

  (I hear that Medicine found them years ago

  in the gorgeous gardens of the Hesperides);

  and third, powders from Mount Olivet,

  that, mixed with potions, glow honey-golden.

  I bless you, great house, Medicine’s ward,

  everyone’s hope, mankind’s gift-hoard.

  PC

  BISHOP PATRICK

  (d.1084)

  Prologue to the Book of Saintly Patrick the Bishop

  THE INVOCATION OF THE SAINTLY BISHOP PATRICK

  Omnipotent God, who fills the recesses of Heaven, restrain with your oar the hoary waves of the deep.

  THE PROLOGUE TO THE BOOK OF THE SAINTLY BISHOP PATRICK BEGINS

  Fare forward, boat,

  over the wide sea;

  Christ on the waves

  be your guide,

  with his skilful oar,

  his blue sky.

  Sail swiftly, boat,

  through the empty sea,

  cut through the wan

  & churning flow,

  expertly steered

  by friendly winds.

  Fare forward, little book,

  an angel beside you,

  through the spreading sea:

  visit the kind place

  of bishop Wulstan,

  find him well who

  is worthy of honour

  & sweetness in love;

  banish his sorrow,

  peal out in joy

  night & day,

  your song lifted

  to the sun &

  highest stars.

  Fare forward, page,

  in the sacred strength

  of the high cross;

  may the sails swell

  through clear straits;

  learn, boat,

  to safely run

  across plains

  of sea; be like

  the deep’s monsters

  & swim in

  bitter waters.

  Fare forward, little book:

  joyful in wave

  & wind will you go,

  the scaly hosts

  your company;

  the helmsman’s shout

  for you shall sound

  from the depths of the sea

  with a sweet ring.

  Sail swiftly, boat,

  in joy through the waves;

  may the tops of your sail

  be strained full

  by wind from the east;

  may breezes

  cloudlessly

  minister to you

  & may no

  error destroy you

  until you are

  carried straight

  to English fields.

  Fare forward, page:

  following in thought

  I’ll be your comrade,

  led by love

  to visit peace’s

  dear fosterlings;

  to the Christians

  of kindly Wulstan

  to all of them equally

  bring, as is meet,

  thrice ten greetings

  in lovely sequence.

  Fare forward, little book,

  with this limping verse,

  and from Patrick

  of faithful mind,

  request, as is right,

  for my colleague Aldwin

  a thousand crowns

  of wholesome life.

  THE PROLOGUE ENDS

  PC

  II

  * * *

  THERE IS NO LAND ON EARTH ITS PEER: 1201–1600

  Þer nis lond on erþe is pere

  ‘The Land of Cockayne’

  ANONYMOUS

  from The Song of Dermot and the Earl (early 13th century)

  Dermot and the Wife of O’Rourke

  In Ireland at the time

  No king was more worthy:

  Generous and wealthy,

  He hated meanness.

  Through rude power

  He had fought and conquered

  O’Neill and Meath,

  Bringing into Leinster


  Hostages like O’Carroll,

  Son of Oriel’s king.

  In Leath-Chuinn a king,

  Called O’Rourke in Irish,

  Lived in drab Tirbrun,

  A wild, wooded place.

  O’Rourke was wealthy,

  With a beautiful wife,

  Daughter of Melaghlin,

  Sprung from the line

  Of Melaghlin Boldheart,

  Son of Colman, the courteous

  And noble king.

  But enough about Melaghlin,

  I speak of King Dermot.

  Dermot, king of Leinster,

  Whom this lady loved,

  Pretended he loved her,

  While not loving her at all,

  But wishing, if he could,

  To avenge the great shame

  Men from Leath-Chuinn brought

  On his lands long ago.

  King Dermot sent word

  To the lady he so loved –

  By messenger and letter

  He often sent word

  That she was without doubt

  The love of his life;

  Thus he all the time sought

  Her true love in secret.

  And the lady sent word

  Through a private envoy

  That she soon would be his:

  To the respected king

  She sent answer again,

  By word of mouth and in writing

  That he should come for her

  With the army of Leinster

  And by violent force

  Take her back with him;

  She would let him know

  Where he would find her

  Waiting in hiding

  To be carried away …

  The Complaint of O’Rourke

  O’Rourke was bitter

  Over the wife he had lost,

  And he offered fierce battle

  To Leinster’s men.

  But Dermot, my lords,

  Took the lady away

  And never ceased marching

  Til he reached Kinsellagh.

  And the lady a long time

  Stayed there, people say:

  At Ferns she was placed

  As people say, thus.

  O’Rourke, much grieving,