Poems And Ballads From Gweedore To Skibbereen Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Dublin
Baggot Road & Beggar's Bush
Chancery Place, Fitzwilliam's Lane
Meath Street, Cork Street, Misery Hill
Gig wheels spin in spit of rain

Stoneybatter Road, the Spire
Folk from Wexford, County Clare
Bride Road, Cuffe Street, Bachelor's Walk
Bucks from Sligo and Rosslare

Abbey Street, Croke Park, and Cahir
Waterford, the Liffey's banks
Here the world's accents clash!
Boston bleats out Howdee! Thanks!

Shannon, Limerick, Liverpool,
Norway, Rajasthan, Killarney
Here to sample Irish wit
Taste the Guinness, hear the blarney

Harmony Row, St Stephen's Green
Fishamble Street, lush Phoenix Park
The restless ghost of Oscar Wilde
Strange assignations after dark

Plates of prawns from Dublin Bay
Artists, poets, drunkards, dreamers
Cruises, buses, cobbles, crowds
Foodies, fashionistas, schemers

Here's tattooists! Dolphins! Snugs!
Cow's Lane. Bones of Strongbow, too
Malahide Castle. Mussels, Punks
Bretzel bagels,Irish stew.

The Jeanie Johnstone famine ship
Shamrocks. Leprechaun's green hat
Trotters, bog bodies, cold surf
The Book ofKells. A mummified cat

Words of Behan, Beckett, Yeats
Heaney, Wilde, Bram Stoker, Joyce
Jonathan Swift, George Bernard Shaw
Craic that made the world rejoice

Mulligan's Kehoe's and McDaid's
Teem with diners, boozers, chancers
Poets in search of Kavanagh
At the bar with toffs and dancers

Gulliver's Travels do not rate
Nor Ulysses with his wanderings
Joy takes up its flute and pipes
On Parnell Square, your feet grow wings

There's Rock and Garage, Classics, Pop
The Haepenny Bridge has heard them all
The Duke of Wellington passed here
Where Mol Malone put on her shawl

Theatres, cupcakes, Garda, hurling
Angel, bullet-hole in chest
On O'Connell Street she stands
Badge of honour on her breast

Wrens of the Curragh, long forgot
Wraiths, slink in from their turf dens
The lepers of St Stephen's Green
Vanished, like mists from Gaelic Glens

Prick with a stick, Joyce statue, sees
A wheelchair user, bald and bleary
Girl in a leopard-skin print bra
A red-nosed dosser, pissed and leery

Hags with bags, life sized in bronze
Immortalizing women's need
To gossip,set the world to rights
The crowds in passing, pay scant heed.

Gum-chewing pony-tailed young man
Bare ankles and his shirt well-worn
Strolls past ‘The Chariot of Life'
(Mad Milkman as the statue's known)

In dyed pink hair, black at the roots
In thong-toed sandals, toe-nails, gold
And purple shorts (her bum cheeks hang
Like melons, waiting to be sold)
A tourist steps, with heavy pack
To catch a show or ceilidh act

A tourist guide, her golden hair
As fair as crinkle-cut French fries
Smiles to her queue of skinny jeans
With resignation in her eyes

Labourers, bellies over belts
Dig drains where Trinity's on view
As round the bollards and the fence
Mohawk-haired scholars push on through

Here dove-grey Garda watch the horde
Go by, their phones clamped to their ears
Like limpets, while two lovers kiss
An old drunk trips, tanked up with beers

Here Brendan, Aengus, Ciaran, Eamon
Jostle to find a nice coleen
Cathleen or Caitlin, Nora, Orla
Who'll cook a stew or a drisheen

Rucksacks festooned with foreign flags
Are used as seats by owners' asses
A tomboy motorcyclist vrooms
In bleached blond quiff, and huge black glasses

Full-bearded Moslem, stern-faced
Leads forth his offspring like Van Trapp
Sprinters and strollers, joggers, priests
Shoppers and stragglers, baseball-capped
All vie for right to hog the path
Where do they go, this congregation?
Flanagan's pub? To work? Or home,
Hoping no queues wait at the station?

Jewish Museum, jails, the Famine
History seeps from walls around
Viking long ships, Easter Monday
Treasures above and underground

Georgian Mansion, Bloomsday travels
Beat of bodhran, Temple Bar
Darkey Kelly's, the Hairy Lemon
Dublin suits a wandering star!


The Twa Humphies
There bedd at the fit o the Galtee Bens
A cheil in Acherlow glen
Wi a humph on his back like a postie's sack
An a snoot near touchin the fen

He kent aboot cherms an medicines tae
He wyved strae tae bunnets galore
He preened a foxglove inno his hat
An his name it wis Lusmore

Ae gloamin Lusmore cam hame frae toon
Till he cam tae the moat o Knockgrafton
An weariet he lay wi his bunnet o strae
Luikin up at the meen that shone doon on
Himsel…syne a soun cheepit up frae the grun
Twis a maist dumfoonerin lay
Fur aa the wirds o thon unca sang
Wis Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday

Weel eftir a while Lusmore jyned in
He feenished the sang in style
Addin ‘Thursday Friday Setterday'
Thon the wee fowk did beguile

‘Ten thoosan years we've sung thon sang
Wi niver a cheenge', quo they
‘An noo that ye've added the ither wirds
Ten thoosan mair we'll hae.'
Like a hurlygush he wis wheeched awa
Doon intae the fey fowks' hame
An tae thank their frien a boon they've gien
The humph frae his back they've taen

Sae Lusmore stude, sae straicht an braw
An daunced till he sleepit, fu swackent
Fin daylicht cam abune the grun
At the moat o Knockgrafton he waukened

Nae humph ava, wi a new set o claes
He gaed tae the fit o the bens
The tale won oot…twis the spikk o the place
The clachans, the sheilins, the glens

Noo nae lang eftir a wumman appeared
Frae Waterford dweeble an auld
Her laddie, Jack Madden wis cursed wi a humph
Wis it true, the sklaik she'd bin tauld?

Could Lusmore tell her the nearest wye
Far the wee fowk micht be sichtit
An fit did he dae, tae please them sae
That the humph frae his back wis liftit?

Lusmore telt aa an he wished them weel
The wife an her loon Jack Madden
An the puir auld mither hurled him in a cairt
Far he sat like cock o the midden

Weel nicht cam doon at Knockgrafton syne
An the wee fowk sang their lay
Jack Madden skreiched oot wi aa his virr
‘Eftir Setterday cams Sunday! '

The king o the feys lowped ooto the knowe
‘Fa's roarin tae gar us grue? '
‘Masel, ' Jack Madden rudely quo
‘Takk the humph frae ma back richt noo! '

‘Is thon the wye o't' the king reponed
‘Weel, here's fit we think o YE! '
An he heistit up Lusmore's auld humph
Jack Madden's back tae gie

Sae noo Jack Madden hid twa braid humphs
Ye maunna misfit the feys
An he crept twa fauld like a camel
Till the eyn o his mortal days


The Sowel Cages
Jack bedd wi his wife in a hoose bi the sea
On the wast coast o Erin, a bield frae the gales
Whyles he fished fur a catch, whyles a storm's stramash
Wracked a ship near the shore, brukk a hull, tore its sails

An betimes he saved sailors, whyles anely the cargo
Rum, cotton, or brandy, tobaccy as weel
Bit the hale o his life Jack hid winted tae meet
A merrow bobbed up frae the sea's stormy sweel

His da an his granda met merrowsafore him
(The merrows, fey craiturs, fa bedd in the brine)
An ae day Jack spied in the mids o the watter
A merrow atap a rock, cantie an free

Jack fussled. The merrow lowped unner the wave
Bi plunkin a cocked hat on tap o his heid
Neist day a storm raise an Jack swam tae a cave
Tae escape..fa wis there bit the merrow, indeed!

Its hair an its teeth wir as green as cwid be
Reid nebbed wi a grumphie's een, ugsome forbye
Fish's tail an shank's scaley, wee airms like fins
An nae claes ava on the breet did Jack spy

‘Fit like min, ' quo Jack, fin the merrow he met
‘Isn't it affa, this roch winny weather'
‘I kent yer da an yer granda as weel
An mony's a drink we hae swallaed thegither.

Cam here neist Monday…I'll show ye ma hame.'
Quo the merrow tae Jack, an he quickly agreed
An on Monday he gaed Jack a hat fur his heid
‘Haud ontae ma tail, fur we'll dive at great speed.'

At the foun o the sea wis the green merrow's hoose
His reef it wis theekit bi braw oyster shells
An labster pots hung roon the waas o his hame
An sea shelties jinkin wi reins vrochto pearls

‘Ma nemme is Coomarra, ' the green merrow said
‘In the labster pots thonner I keep sailors'sowels
Fin they droon their last bubbles they're catched an they're caged
Fin the waves tummle ower an the wud ocean howls.'

Coomarra an Jack drank a lang time at ease
Till the merrow gaed back the cocked hat tae his frien
An faister than lichtnin Jack sped tae the shore
Eftir sikkin the merrow tae dine neist foreneen

For Jack'sgudewife Biddy ay gaed tae the toon
In the mornin tae gaither her messages there
An as sune's she depairtit Coomarra lowped up
Tae dine in Jack's hoose on a lan lubber's fare

‘Hiv ye iver drunk potcheen? ' Jack speired at his frien
‘Mind its strang an its pouerfu -it micht caa ye ower
‘I can haud ony drink! ' the wee merrow reponed
Bit the sea breet drapped fooshunless inbye an oor

Jack plunked on the hat, tae the watter he ran
Dived doon tae the merrow's hame unner the wave
He lowsed ilkie sowel cage an aff wi a ‘ping'
Gaed the sowels o the sailors he managed tae save

Syne he grabbed a cod's tail an flew up tae the air
An hashed fur his hame…bit young Biddy wis first
She saw the green merrow straiked oot on the fleer
An thocht the potcheen Jack drank, hid wirkit a curse

Bit Jack telt her the tale o the cages o sowels
He cairriet Coomarra back doon tae the tide
Far he blinkit his grumphy een, flappit his fins
An vowed thon potcheen wis the best drink he'd tried

Noo aften Coomarra an Jack still foregaither
Fin potcheen caas the feet frae his frien
Jack lowses the sowel cages..‘ping' gaed the ghaisties
Coomarra's short sichted an disnae miss ane


Nurse o the Feys
Nearhaun Coolgarrow aince there bedd
A fermer, wife an bairnies three
Their coo wis sick, the wife she gaed
Tae buy an elfin remedy

Thon verranight the mither left….
The bairns vowed that the hoose wi fu
O mannikins an wifiekins
Aa wee, an green, an braw tae view

The fermer he wis richt sair made
A neebor helped his family
Sax wikks syne tae the neebor's hame
A Derk Cheil rode onfite sheltie

‘Ye're needit' quo the elfin cheil
‘Aa richt- far are ye takkin me?
‘It's nae fur ye tae speir or ken'
He touched her een…she cudnae see

Fin they their destination won
He touched her een, she saw again
She got a phial o fey green ile
Tae rub aa ower the fairy's bairn

She stude inbye a castle gran
Wi elfin lairds an leddies fine
An aa the tables wir laid oot
Wi deinties an wi casks o wine

Her ee wis yoky, she did dicht
It, some green ile gaed gaed sypin in
Bit och! The castle it wis cheenged
An aathin wis as dreich as sin

The castle it becam a cave
An oorie airt stap fu o waes
The baby wis a shargaret scrat
The leddies, dressed in orra claes

Her darg wis ower, the elf king wis
Tae bring her hame, bitfirst ava
The fermer's wife crept tae her side
Tae tell foo she micht win awa

‘On Friday aa the host ride oot
Tae Temple Shambo, tell ma John
Tae catch ma plaid as I pass by
An dinna daur lat gae o thon'

The Derk Cheil gied tae neebor wife
5 guineas…bit fin ae nicht passed
They turned tae wizzent aik leaves, deid
Fur Elfin favours dinna laist

Neist Friday John wis wytin, hid,
He heard fey shelties neigh an prance
The seely horde cam steerin by
The neebor cried: ‘Noo, here's yer chaunce'

He grabbed his wife an held her ticht
The feys bizzed roon like bees frae bike
Bitin the air he signed a cross
An aff they skreiched as faist's ye like

Ae day at Enniscorthy fair
The Derk Cheil wauked tween cheese an fruit
He spied the neebor an cam up
‘Foo div I luik in this new suit? '

‘Fyach I see nocht bit wizzent duds! '
The Derk Cheil struck her wi a switch
The ee she'd rubbed wi ile gaed blin…
Takk tent an niver cross a witch!


The Winnerfu Tune
Maurice Connor o Munster
Blin piper o honour
Wis famed fur his pipin
Sae braw an excitin
His Hen's Concert wis fine
His Erne's Fussle, divine
Bit ae winnerfu tune
Could gar aa in the room
Daunce like strae in a storm
Somelike newly threwshed corn
At fair waddin an feast
He aye heidit the list
Bi his auld mither led
Like a dug tae its bed

Noo ae bonnie day
At Ballinskellig Bay
A humphy backed maister
O dauncin, did offer
Young Connor a drink
An as faist as a wink
He drank a hale bottle
Piped up at fu throttle

Faither Florence Conry
Rhymed the lave bonnily
For the silkies in motion
Like waves frae the ocean
On finned feet cam jinkin
Aa lauchin an prinkin
A rowth o blythe fish
Partans braw's ye could wish
The rare soun they chased
The pechin cod raced
The gunner an fleuk
Furled ben air like a heuk
John-Dories can stottin
Hake ran watter-drappin
Bricht maukrel cam sweengin
Like wattergaws wingin
The whitin an haddie
The spottie, the buckie
The flat physoged skate
Ling, sole, early an late
Wi herrin like flooers
In siller-bricht shooers
Wi jeelyfish, sprat,
Till the san wis a mat
O ocean breets shooglin
Tae Connor's tune jigglin
The oyster clacks mell
Castanets wi each shell
A stramash, a melee
This incam frae the sea
Till on the seaside
Steppt a quine frae the tide

A cocked hat on her heid
Sea green hair, fey, indeed
Wi teeth o fite pearl
Fit fur princess an earl
Lips o coral sae reid
Cam tae Maurice an said
‘I'm a leddy o honour
Cam here Maurice Connor
Be merriet tae me
An these things I shall gie
Siller ashets, gowd dishes
Ye'll be king o the fishes! '

At first he said ‘Na
Twidnae suit me ava
Tae swallae satt watter
Or ett frae gowd platter.'

Bit his mither lamented
Fin Maurice consented
(nae wintin a cod as a granbairn….foo odd)
‘Wheesht mither, ' cried he, ‘I am set for the sea.'
A wave lowpit ower
The sea quine an piper
His mither, wi grievin
Deed wikksfrae his leavin

Frae the Kerry coast wingin
Some nichts, Connor's singin
Is heard ower the san
‘Crystal watter, lued stran
I hae pairtit frae ye
Tae bide wi ma leddy'

Takk tent ane an aa
Dinna ficher ava
Wi the eildritch an oorie
Mynd Maurice's story


The Banshee (1)
In Ireland, an omen that sometimes accompanies the banshee is the coach-a-bower(cóiste-bodhar) - an immense black coach, mounted by a coffin, and drawn by headless horses driven by a Dullahan

The Irish bansheechuses tribes,
Winane bit them will she gae
Afore that ane o the nummer dees
She claps an maens wi wae

Ye'll hear fowk keen at a kinsman's daith
Fowk murninin pit mirk duddies
An whyles the banshee sens a coach
That's pued wi heidless cuddies

The Dullachan rides wioot a heid
He hauds it heich in his haun
An gin ye meet him on the road
Ye're leavin the warld o man

The Banshee (2)
The Scottish Baobhan Sith, is known as the White Women of the Scottish Highlands. She took the form of a beautiful woman, waiting to seduce young travellers and drink their blood. The Baobhan Sith were said to shapeshift into wolves to stalk their prey. Legend has it these women had hooves instead of feet.

Gin ye should meet a quine in fite
Hyne in the Heilans, lad, takk heed
Gyang forrit faist, gin ye devaul,
She'll teir yer thrapple, sook yer bluid

Fowk say she'd hooves insteid o feet
Happt bi her flowin silky claes
Bit she cud cheenge intae a wolf
An wi her fangs, she'd eyn yer days


The Sang o Amheirgin: owersett in Scots
I am a stag o seeven tines
I am a spate alang a lea
I am a win ower lochan deep
A tear, the sun loots doondrap free
I am an ern abeen the Craig
I am a stob aneth a nail
I'm a bumbazement mangst the flooers
I am a warlock... it's masel
Kinnles the cweel heid reid wi rikk.
I am a spear raxxed heich fur bluid
I am the salmon in the puil
I am a lure frae Tir-nan-Og
A knowe far sennachies travail
I am a boar, rampagin reid
A hurlygush o waefu weird
Drooned daith, aneth the ocean's sweel
I am a bairnie … fa bit me
Teets far fey staunin steens are stapped?
I am the wame far otters bide
I am the sunbleeze on the knowe
In ilkie bees' skepp, I'm the bride
I am the bield fur ilkie powe
The mool, far ilkie hope is happed.


Pangur Ban
Anon Irish 8th Centurypoem, written by a monk. Here, owersett inno Scots

Pangur Ban ma cat an me
Tis a sim'lar darg we dee
Huntin moosies, his delicht
Huntin wirds I sit aa nicht

Better than men's praise tae pree
Tis tae screive wi buik on knee
Pangur, likewise, nae upstert,
Lives tae cairry oot his airt

Tis richt blythe oor lives tae see
Aboot oor darg, fu eidently
Fin we hae, in generous meisur
Ploys that gie us oors o pleisur

Whiles a moosie frae a neuk
Rins near Pangur's raxxin cleuk
Whiles, ma hams will grup an get
A hale new meanin in its net

Agin the waa he sets his ee
Fierce an faist an sherp an slee
Agin the waa o wyceness, I
Aa ma pouers o kennin, try

Fin the moose lowps intae sicht
Fu is Pangur o delicht!
Aa the warld can gyang tae wrack
Fan a puzzle I can crack!

Sae thegither, we agree
Pangur Ban, ma cat an me
In oor hairts we finn oor bliss
I hae mine an he has his

Practice makketh cat an man
The perfect hunter, Pangur Ban
I win wyceness day an nicht
Turnin derkness inno licht


Owersett in Scots o The Train to Derry, by Theo Dorgan
A craa dunts on the updraucht ower a shilpit hawe,
showdit bit breengin on. A puckle of Paras, joggit wi nerves,
hoasts an buits forrit alang the sheugh.
Lang efter the sodjers hae gaen, the craas will sattle hame.

Since Newry, choppers hae bin warsslin back an fore
ootower the track. Thon trains are owerhett, swyte
stangs in ma unnersleepit een; I'd raither the craas' heist an pu
than tae be here, showdit tae the marra, drivin on Derry.

I aften wish, ma luve, that we wir birdies, the braid airts
o Ireland at oor turn an faa, the warld's win
oor ordnar element - rain, ice, hail or sun oor gods,
the heich pines oor greenwheep lichtnin rods.

The nicht there's a horned meen an Venus treetlin
laigh ower the Watterside. The nicht let me fauld ye in ma wings,
pray naebody's killt in derk o kintra or toon. We'll sattle
the lang nicht in anither o oor beds, watch fit the mornin brings.


Owersett in Scots o Skull Of A Curlew - Poem by Theo Dorgan
Skull o a whaup fu o starnies,
ma moo in a lowe wi blaik, unspikkable bees.
Licht on the lime trunks, fitened an nyaakit,
ma thrapple risin, stappit wi blaikfogged bees.

Dubs o the orchard on ma chikk,
chikks pluffed oot like win on a map's sides.
Stoor in ilkie lungfu o cauld air,
lips brunt inbye bi blaik bees.

I wyte fur the meen tae heist me
I pray tae the midnicht eemock
I cleuk at neivefus o weet girse
I haimmer the yird wi nyaakit heels.

Skull o a whaup fu o starnies,
nicht lift drawled wi the een o bees.
Blaik lowe aroon ilkie starnie,
I swallae fleg in moofus o fur an wing.

Skull o a whaup fu o starnies,
the muckle hive o heiven wechty aroon me.
I spit oot bees an blaik roose,
moo o a whaup, linn o quaet starnies.


Owersett in Scots fraeThe View from Under the Table bi Paula Meehan
wis the best sicht an the brod itsel keepit the lift
frae faain. The warld wis edged wi reid velvet tossles;
fitiver play ran in thon chaumer the brodcloot wis curtains fur.
I wis the audience. Lippen tae me lauchin. Lippen
tae me greetin. I wis a bairn. Fit did I ken?

Forbye that the meen wis a porcelain baa an showdit frae a braiss chyne. O
that wisnae the meen at aa. The meen wis ma true luve. Aik wis ma reef an
unner the brod naebody could see ye. Ma granny cud see me.
Oot, she'd say. Oot. An up on her lap the guff o kitchie an sleep.
She'd showed me. She'd shoosh me. Naebody wis kinder.

Fit ails ye bairn? I niver telt her. Nae
ae wird wid cross ma lips. Shaddas I'd say. I dinna like the shaddas.
They're wytin tae catch me. There at the neuk o the stairs.
On the landin. Tae the richt o the press. In the fridge, fite ghaists.
Blaik ghaists in the coal sheddie. In the breid bin, hungeret ghaists.

Somewye, anither airt, ma mither wis huffin in the rain. I caa up
her young physog. Fa did she think she wis wi her muckle wirds
an her belt an her threwshins? Fa dae I think I am tae screive her?
She maun hae bin dowie. She maun hae bin lanely.
Control. Scauldin. I raxx oot ma fower year auld hauns.

- Original poem by Paula Meehan, from Dharmakaya (2002)


Owersett intae Scots o a poem bi Paula Meehan for Brendan Kennelly
Ma Faither Perceived as a Vision of St Francis
It wis the piebald shelt in neist yett's gairden
frichtened me oot o a dwaum
wi her daybrakk whinny. I wis back
in the box chaumer o the hoose,
ma brither's chaumer noo,
fu o ties an ganzies an secrets.
Bottlies clunkit on the yett step,
the first bus pued up tae the stop.
The lave o the hoose sleepit

barrin ma faither. I heard
him rake the aisse frae the hairth,
plug in the kettle, thrum a bittick o a tune.
Syne he unsteekit the back yett
an steppit oot intae the gairden.
Autumn wis nearly dane, the first cranreuch
fitened the sclates o the estate.
He wis aulder than I'd thocht,
his hair aathegither siller,
an fur the first time I saw the booin
o his shouder, saw that
his shank wis stiff. Fit's he at?
Sae early an still starnies in the wast?

They cam syne: birdies
o ilkie makk, marra, colour; they cam
frae the dykes an shrubs,
frae easins an gairden sheddies,
frae the industrial estate, ootlyin parks,
frae Dubber Cross they cam
an the sheuchs o the Nor Road.
The gairden wis a melee
fin ma faither haived up his hauns
an flang the crummles tae the air. The sun
cleared O'Reilly's lum
an he wis o a suddenty skinklin,
a perfeck veesion o St Francis,
made hale, made young again,
in a Finglas gairden.


Scots Owerset of The Song of Wandering Aengus, by W.Yeats
I gaed oot to the hazel wid,
Because a lowe wis in ma heid,
An cut an flyped a hazel widdie,
An cleuked a berry tae a threid;
An fin fite mochs wir on the wing,
An moch-like starnies flichtered oot,
I drapped the berry in a burn
An catched a teenie siller troot.
Fin I hid pit it on the fleer
I gaed tae blaw the lowe a-flame,
A ferlie reeshled on the fleer,
A body caaed me bi ma nemme:
It hid becam a glimmrin quine
Wi aipple blossom in her hair
Fa caaed me bi ma nemme an ran
An dwined inbye the brichtenin air.

Tho I am auld wi wannerin
Ben lans wi howes an knowe-fu lans,
I will fin oot far she his gane,
An kiss her mou an takk her hauns;
An wauk amang lang dyewy girse,
An pu till tide an times are dane,
The siller aipples o the meen,
The gowden aipples o the sun.


Owerheard in County Sligo:
Owersett in Scots by Sheena Blackhall of a poem by Gillian Clarke
I merried a cheil frae County Roscommon
In the back o beyont, I bide weel
wi a park o kye an a yaird o chukkens
an sax fite geese on the puil.

At ma yett's a squar o yalla corn
catched up bi its neuks wi a shakk
an the road rins doon throwe the open yett
an freedom's there tae takk.

I'd thocht tae wirk on the Abbey stage
or hae ma nemme in a buik,
tae see ma thocht on the prentit page,
or quaeten the fowk wi a luik.

Bit I turn tae fauld the brakkfast cloot
an tae dicht the sheenin braisse,
tae redd up the touslit chaumers
an fin ma physog in the glaiss.

I ocht tae feel I'm a blythe wumman
In the lap o the kintraside,
bit I mairriet a cheil frae County Roscommon
at the back o beyont I bide.


Forhooeied: (Raglan Road)
The poem Raglan Road by Patrick Kavanagh was set to the music of the traditional song "The Dawning of the Day" (Fáinne Geal an Lae) . An Irish-language song with this name (Fáinne Geal an Lae)was published by Edward Walsh (1805-1850)in 1847 in Irish Popular Songs, and later translated into English as The Dawning of the Day, published by Patrick Weston Joyce in 1873.

Fin an Irish bard gies up his hairt
He takks rejection sair
For a student quine, een derk as wine
Frae Kerry he cam tae care

Bit she wis a blythe young twenty twa
An the siller wis in his hair
His life hauf by, hers aa afore
Wad be unca hard tae share

He'd watch her steppin by his yett
‘Wid ye read ma poems ava? '
‘Is it jist o bog an steen ye screive?
She speired o Pat Kavanagh

He set luve doon, like a gift o flooers
In the back eyn o the year
Bit she wauked on bye, an luikit agley
As it wir on a mournin bier

An his unsocht luve, tuik the form o wird
An it steppt like a ghaist wi a jeel
An it spikks tae aa in grief's coorse thraa
Fa hae lued an lost as weel




Erin Go Bragh: Taught to me by John Watt Stewart, North East traveller
My name's Duncan Campbell
Frae the shire of Argyll
I've traivelled this kintra
For mony's the mile
I've traivelled through Ireland,
Scotland an a'
An the name I gae under's
Bold Erin-go-bragh.

Ae nicht in Auld Reekie
As I wauked doon the street
A saucy big polis
I chaunced fur tae meet
He glowered in ma face
An he gi'ed me some jaw
Sayin' "Fan cam' ye ower,
Bold Erin-go-bragh? "

"Noo were I a Pat
An ye kent it wis true
Or wir I the deevil,
Then fit's it tae you?
If it wisnae fur the stick
That ye haud in yer paw
I wid shaw ye a game
Played in Erin-go-bragh."

An a lump o blackthorn
That I held in ma fist
Aroon his big body
I made it tae twist
An the bluid frae his napper
I quickly did draw
An I pyed him stock-an-interest
Fur Erin-go-bragh.

"Weel I'm nae a Pat tho in Ireland I've been
Nor am I a Paddytho Ireland I've seen
Bit were I a Pat, noo, fit maitters at aa?
Fur there's mony's the bauld hero
frae Erin-go-bragh."

"Weel I ken ye're a Pat
By the cut o yer hair
Bit ye aa turn tae Scotsmen
As sune as ye're here
Ye left yer ain kintra
Fur brakkin the law
An we're seizin aa stragglers
frae Erin-go-bragh."

Then the fowk gaithered roon
Like a flock o wild geese
Cryin "Catch thon big rascal,
He's killed oor police"
An fur ilkie frien I hid
I'll sweir he hid twa
It wis very hard times
Fur Erin-go-bragh.

Bit I cam' tae a wee boat
That sailed in the Forth
An I packed up ma bunnle
An steered fur the North
Fareweel tae Auld Reekie,
Yer policemen an aa
An the deevil gang wi ye,
sez Erin-go-bragh.

Sae cam aa ye young fellas,
Fariver ye're frae
I don't gie a damn
Tae far ye cam frae the day
Bit I'm frae Argyll
An the Hielans sae braw
Bit I ne'er tuik it ill
Fin caad Erin-go-bragh.


The Banks o Claudy
I learned this Irish song from the traveller John Watt Stewart. Gavin Greig noted that this Irish song was popular in Scotland.It was published at "The Poet's Box" in Dundee.


The Banks o Claudy
As I wauked oot ae mornin
Aa in the month o Mey
Doon by a flooery gairden
I carelessly did stray
I overheard a young maid
In wae shedid complain,
Aa fur her absent luver
Fa ploos the ragin main.

I bauldly stepped up tae her
An pit her in surprise.
I saw she didnae ken me
I bein aa in disguise.
I sez, "Ma chermin craitur,
Ma joy, my hairt's delicht,
Foo far hae ye tae traivel
This derk an dreary nicht? "

"I'm luikin fur a young man.
An Johnny is his name.
An alang the Banks of Claudy
I'm telt he does remain."
"This is the Banks o Claudy
Fair maid far on ye stan.
But dinna wyte fur Johnny
Fur he's a fause young man.

I telt her that his ship wis wracked
She flew intae despair
By the wringin o her hans
An the teirin o her hair.
Saying "If ma Johnny's droonded
Nae man on earth I'll take,
Bit throwe the lanely valleys
I'll wander fur his sake."

Oh it's fin I saw her loyalty
Nae langer could I stan
I flew intae her airms sayin
"Betsy I'm yer man."

"Saying Betsy I'm the young man
The cause o aa yer pain
Bit since we've met on Claudy Banks
We'll niver pairt again."


If I Were a Blackbird:
TraditionalIrish Song taught to me by John Watt Stewart
Donnybrook (Irish: Domhnach Broc, meaning "The Church of Saint Broc")is a district of Dublin, Ireland. It is situated on the southside of the city,

I am a young maiden an ma story is sad
For aince I wis coorted bi a brave sailor lad.
He coorted me sweetly bi nicht an bi day
Bit noo ma dear sailor his gaen hyne away.

(Chorus)
If I wir a blackbird, I'd fussle an sing
I'd follae the vesselma true luv sails in
An on the tap riggin I'd bigg me a nest
An I'd pillae ma heid on his lily fite breast.

He promised tae takk me tae Donnybrook fair
To buy me reid ribbons tae tie up ma hair
An fin he'd return frae the ocean sae wide
He said he wid makk me his ain luvin bride.

(Chorus)

His parents they slicht me an winnae agree
That me an ma sailor boy mairried will be
Bit fin he cams hame, I will greet him wi joy
An I'll takk tae ma hairt ma dear sailor boy

(Chorus)



Biddy Mulligan the Pride o the Coombe
TraditionalIrish Song taught to me by John Watt Stewart

CHORUS
You may traivel frae Clare tae the coonty Kildare
Frae Francis Street back tae the Coombe;
Bit far wid ye see a fine widda like me?
Biddy Mulligan the pride o the Coombe

I'm a fine thumpin widda, I live in a spot
In Dublin, they caa it the Coombe.
Ma shop an ma stall is laid oot on the street,
An ma parlour consists o one room.
I sell aipples an oranges, nuts an sweet peas,
Bananas an sugar stick sweet.
On a Setterday nicht I sell second-haun claes,
Frae the fleer o ma stall in the street.

CHORUS

I sell fish on a Friday, spreid oot on a boord
The finest ye'll fin in the sea.
Bit the best is ma herrin,frae fine Dublin Bay,
There's herrin fur denner an tea.
I hae a son, Mick, an he plays on the flute,
He belongs tae the Langford Street band;
It wid dae yer hairt gweed fur tae see him merch oot
On a Sunday for Dollymount Stran.

CHORUS

In the park, on a Sunday, I makk quite a dash
The neebors luik on in surprise.
Wi ma Aiberdeen shawlie thrown ower ma head,
I daizzle the sicht o their eyes.
At Patrick Street corner, fur saxty-fower years,
I've stood, an nae ane can deny
That fin I stood there, that naebody wid dare
Taesay blaik wis the fite o ma eye.

CHORUS


Francis Bacon, Irish artist
Pictures flowed from his brush,
A strange outpouring
Goering and his Lion Cub.
Man with a Monkey.
Man Eating a Leg of Chicken

His father had him horsewhipped by a groom
Finding him dressed in his mother's underwear
Sent him packing, seventeen years old
To the wide world

He drew the odd, the intriguing, the enthralling:
Study of a Baboon
Study of the Sphinx

Religion, pain, death, sin were painted raw
One lover beat him senseless and repeatedly
He was the master of depicting angst,
Pope with Owls
Screaming Pope.Red Pope
Crucifixions, numerous

There are strange bedfellows, in his house of work
Study for Portrait on Folding Bed
Two Figures Lying on a Bed with Attendants
Three Studies of Lucian Freud
Three Studies for Portrait (Mick Jagger)
Study for Portrait, Number IV (After the Life Mask of William Blake)
Study for a Portrait of Van Gogh IV
Three Studies of the Male Back
Study for Crouching Nude

Sometimes, he was a conduit for the thoughts of writers
Triptych inspired by T.S Elliot's Poem Sweeney Agonistes
Triptych inspired by the Oresteia of Aeschylus

Bacon lived life on the edge:
Gambling, drinking, on nodding terms with
Criminals, and those of the fringe of society
Blood on the Pavement
Jet of Water squirting into the eyes oftoday's art critics


Scots Owersetts o Auld Irish Poems.
This poem The Deserted Home may be from the eleventh century.

The Deserted Hame
Dowie spikks the blackie here.
Weel I ken the wae he fand:
Nae maitter fa cut doon his nest,
It wis rypit for its young

I masel nae lang ago
Fand the wae he noo has fand.
Weel I read yer sang, O bird,
For the wrackin o yer hame.

Yer hairt, O blackie, brunt inbye
At the wark o cruel man:
Yer nest reived o young an egg
The cooherd thinks a nochtie tale.

At yer swete notes they eesed tae cam,
Yer new-fledged bairnies, frae hyne aff;
Nae bird noo cams oot frae yer hoose,
Ower its sides the nettle growes.

They murdered them, the cooherd lads,
Aa yer bairnies in ae day:
Ae same weird tae me an ye,
Ma ain bairnies live nae mair.

There wis feedin bi yer side
Yer mate, a bird frae ower the sea:
Syne the snare entaigled her,
At the cooherds' hauns she deed.

O Ye, the Maker o the warld!
Uneven hauns Ye lay on us:
Oor fiers at oor side are spared,
Their wives an bairnies are alive.

A heeze o feys cam as a blast
Tae bring doonfaa tae aa oor hoose:
Tho bluidless wis their takkin aff,
Yet coorse as slauchter bi the sword.
Wae for oor wives, wae fur oor young!
The dule o oordeep grief is great:
Nae trace o them inbye, wioot
An sae ma hairt hurts sair.


Simmer is Gaen is frae the ninth century.

Simmer is Gaen
Ma tidins fur ye: the stag bells,
Yule snaas, simmer is gane.
Win heich an cauld, laigh the sun,
Short his coorse, sea rinnin heich.
Deep-reid the bracken, its makk aa gane
The wud-goose his raised his ordnar skreich.
Cauld his catched the wings o birdies;
Sizzon o ice—thon are ma tidins.


A Sang o Winter is frae the tale caad The Hidin o the Knowe o Howth an dates frae aroon the tenth century.

A Sang o Winter
Cauld, cauld! Cauld the-nicht is braid Moylurg, heicher the snaa on the Bens
The deer canna win at their maet.
Cauld till Doom! The storm his spreid ower aa:
A river is ilkie rig upon the brae, ilkie ford a full puil.
A muckle tidal sea is ilkie loch, a full loch is ilkie puil:
Shelts canna win ower the ford o Ross, nae mair can twa feet win thonner.
The fish o Ireland are a-reengin, there's nae stran the wave disnae blatter,
Nae a toon there is in the lan, nae a bell is heard, nae crane spikks.
The wolves o Cuan-wid get neither rest nur sleep in their den,
The Jenny Wren canna fin shelter in her nest on the brae o Lon.
Snell win an cauld ice his breenged on the wee boorich o birds,
The blackie canna fin a lee tae her likin,
A bield fur its side in Cuan-wid.
Cosy oor pot on its heuk, cruikit the sheilin on the brae o Lon:
The snaa his brukken the wid here, a tyauve tae sclimm up Ben-bo.
Glenn Rye's auncient bird frae the wersh win fins wae;
Great her dowieness an her hurt, the ice'll win intae her moo.
Frae flock an frae howe tae rise
Takk it tae hairt! —wir gyte for ye:
Ice in hillocks on ilkie ford— Thon's foo I say ‘cauld'!