Classic Poem

Twas my custom to stroll with the river in view
Through the fresh meadows covered with dew,
By the edge of the woods on the wild mountain-side
At the dawn of the day I’d cheerfully stride.
My heart would brighten Loch Graney to spy,
And the country around it, to the edge of the sky.
The serried mountains were a delight to the beholder
Thrusting their heads over each other’s shoulder.
’Twould lighten the heart wizened with years—
Triflingly spent or drenched with tears—
Of the bitter outcast without wealth or goods
To catch a glimpse o’er the top of the woods
Of the ducks paddling by in the pellucid bay,
Escorting the swan on her stately way,
Of the fish in joyous arching flight
And of the perch, a speckled spritely sight,
Of the blue surging swell on the tinted lake
Crashing ashore with a thunderous quake,
Of the birds in the trees merrily singing,
While the deer through the woods are nimbly springing,
To see the huntsmen with bugles blaring,
As after Reynard the hounds are tearing

Yesterday morning, no clouds in the sky,
Presaged another hot day in July;
Up came the sun after a rest for the night,
To her day’s work, making all nature bright.
With treeleaves rustling overhead
And grass and ferns before me spread,
The expanse of flowers would cheer the soul
And lighten thoughts however dole.
Totally fagged and dying to sleep,
I lay down where the grass was deep
Beside a rill, with trees about
A support for my head and my feet stretched out.
On shutting my eyes to go to sleep,
Locking them tight in slumber deep,
My face protected from the flies,
A dream caused me to agonize
To shake, to chafe my psyche deep
In my senseless, helpless sleep.

Short was my sleep when I heard, thought I,
A violent quaking of the ground nearby
A storm from the north violently brewing
And fire from the harbour luridly spewing;
In my mind’s eye, a quick survey
Revealed towards me by the bay
A violent, bulging, big-assed crone
Her huge bulk hinting at testosterone;
Her stature, if I reckoned right,
Was six or seven yards in height
She dragged her cloak for yards behind her
Through the mud and mire and squalor.
’Twas mighty, majestic, wild and horrid
To gaze upon her blemished forehead;
The rictus of her gummy grin
Would make you jump out of your skin.
God almighty! In her huge claw
Was the biggest staff you ever saw
A brass plaque at its spike defined
The bailiff’s powers to her assigned.

In a gruff voice these words she spoke:
Up! Shake a leg! ya sleepy yoke;
Shame on you, to be stretched out here
With court convened and crowds drawing near.
It’s not a court without rule or code.
Nor a marauding court in your usual mode
This court is built on a civilized base—
The court of the weak with a female face.
It’s indeed a great boast for Ireland’s seed
That to sit in court the fairy lords agreed
For two days and a night holding forth
On top of the mount, in Moy Graney fort.
Intense is the grief of the spectral lord,
Of his spritely household’s noble horde
And all of the others assembled there
At the scale of Ireland’s disrepair—
The ancient race without wealth or liberty
No tributes, leaders nor legal autonomy
The rape of the land with naught in its train,
In place of the crops, a weed-rank terrain;
The nobles languish in a foreign land
While the jumped-up rich get the upper hand,
In betrayal ardent, in plunder greedy
Flaying the sick, despoiling the needy.
It is blackly baneful and sticks in the craw
That, in darkest despair over the absence of law,
There’s nothing from no one for the purposeless weak
But a depredacious future that is hopelessly bleak,
The knavery of lawyers, tyranny on high
Injustice, fraud and neglect apply
The law is clouded, the scales awry,
With all the pull that bribes can buy.

Along with the rest—and all was debated—
An indictment was entered and that day dated,
A charge that you cannot easily refute:
The wizening celibacy among your youth,
The consequent lack of people in Ireland
And the decline in population on this island;
The land left empty and in decline
Wrecked by war, by death and rapine
The kings with gumption who have gone overseas
Have not been replaced by new inductees.
Your race without young ones is sad to see
With women burdening the land and the sea,
Once buxom maids and lasses fresh
With boiling blood and sultry flesh
Are now lethargic, relicts debased
Once trim girls are gone in the waist;
’Tis a pity that these are without fruit of the womb
Without swelling breasts and bellies in bloom.
They just look for the word, please don’t wait
Until they are past their sell-by date.

The solons decided after deliberation long
Not to try the case before the fairy throng:
But to appoint a plenipotent magistrate
Who could, with the people, mediate.

There was an offer from Aoibheal, with a heart so clean
Munstermen’s friend and Craglea’s queen
To the assembled council to bid farewell
And in the land of Thomond to bide a spell.
This gentle upright lady swore
To rip out bad laws by their core
To stand steadfast beside the poor and weak
So the mighty will have to cherish the meek.
The powerful desist from inflicting wrongs
And justice enthroned where it belongs:
I promise now that no power nor lure,
Nor the blandishments of pimp or whore
Will undermine the dispensation
Of this tribunal for its duration;
The village of Feakle is where the court is sitting
Go and attend it—you’ve got to get cracking
Go quietly or at your peril dire
I’ll drag you there through the muck and mire.
With her crook she grabbed the hood of my cape
And off she dragged me with no escape
Down through the valleys I was propelled
To Moinmoy Hill church where the court was held.

For sure, I saw there ablaze with light
What seemed like a stately mansion bright
Sparkling, spacious, tapestried,
Spectral, sturdy, brilliant indeed
I spied Aoibheal, the fairy wench
Seated on the judge’s bench
I saw a strong and nimble guard
Numerously gathered round their ward;
I saw a household that was jammed
With men and women inside it crammed.
Then came forward a majestic cailín
She was soft and comely, of gentle mien
With tumbling tresses framing her face
As on the stand she took her place.
Her hair was loose and flowing free
But her face was the picture of misery
Her eyes were fierce and filled with hate
And she worked herself to such a state
That she moaned and heaved and sobbed and sighed
But couldn’t speak though hard she tried.
You could see from the flood of tears she shed
That she’d much prefer if she were dead
Than being on the floor facing the stands
Kneading her fists and wringing her hands.
After her protracted jags of crying
She cleared her throat, with much sighing
The gloom lifted from her tear-stained cheek,
She dried her eyes and started to speak: —

A thousand welcomes, we guarantee
O Aoibheal, venerable queen of Craiglea,
Light of the day, Ray of the sun
Worldly wealth for the hard-put-upon
Conquering commander of the hosts of the blessed
In Thomond and Tír Lorc you were sorely missed;
The crux of my case, the cause of my woe
The ache that has plagued me and laid me low
What knocked me sideways and struck me dumb
Caused a searing pain that left me numb, —
The finest of maidens wandering around
Without hope of a husband, a shilling or pound,
Despondent young things without help of a mate
Innocently barred from the matrimonial state.
I know these maidens whereof I speak
One hundred and one for whom prospects are bleak
I list myself among these wrecks:
I got my gender but I get no sex
At my time of life, ’tis depressing and cold
Doing without luxuries, jewels and gold,
Gloomy and cheerless is my plight
Unable to sleep through the pleasureless night,
But tossed with worry lying there
On a chilly bed, alone not a pair.
O Lady of Craiglea, you must assess
The extent of Irish women’s distress,
How, if the men continue with their ways,
Alas, women will have to make the plays
By the time the men are disposed to wed
They’re no longer worth our while to bed
And it’ll be no fun to lie below
Those old men who are so weak and slow.
Even if, with a young man’s fire,
One in seven of the beardless were to desire
To mate with a lass of his own age
He wouldn’t choose the noble or sage
With an hour-glass figure and a knockout face
One who can carry herself with grace
But an icy, cheerless, catty bitch
Who used all her guile to make herself rich.

It’s the scourge of my heart and a pain in my head
And fills my thoughts with a sense of dread
It’s what has made me sad and sighing
Totally wasted with all this crying, —
When I see a lad who’s brave and cool
Who is virile, vigorous and strong as a mule
Who is steadfast, skillful, bright as a pin
Fresh-faced, funny, with a ready grin
Or a boy who is frisky, frolicky, fun
With a well-built body, second to none
Beaten, bought, bound unawares
By a hussy who’s extremely light upstairs
Or a slovenly slattern, a workless wench
Who’d make you gag with her noisome stench
A prating, prattling, babbling bag
An indolent, irritable, horrible hag.
My God, I hear that an ill-mannered mare
With unshod feet and uncombed hair
Is to be hitched tonight which I find really grating;
What’s wrong with me that I’m left here waiting?
What is the reason that no one loves me
And I so lissome, so svelt and so lovely?
My lips so red are made to be kissed
My face so bright it cannot be missed
My eyes are green, my locks are flowing
Curly and plaited and healthily glowing
My forehead and cheeks are without zits or boils
A porcelain complexion that nothing spoils.
My neck, my breast, my hand, my finger
Each would make a young lad linger.
Look at my waist, my fine bone frame
I’m not crooked or hunched or lame
A butt, a foot, a figure to impress
I’ll not go into what’s beneath my dress.
I’m not a hussy, nor yet a drip
But a delicate beauty with lots of zip,
Not a slovenly, slatternly pig
Nor a joyless boorish prig.
Not a lazy laggard with no clout
But a choice young woman well turned out
If I were as worthless as some of my neighbours
A tiresome tramp who never labours
In the ways of the world without foresight or flair
What would it matter if I fell into despair?
But it has never been on people’s tongue
That, at wake or funeral for old or young,
In the hall for the dances or at the race track
On the hurling pitch among the pack
I wasn’t dressed from head to toe
In a tasty costume fit for a show.
My hair is powdered to a T
My starched cap riding jauntily
My bright-hued hood with ribbons galore
A polka dress with a ruffled pinafore
And I’m seldom without it, except in bed,
My cardinal cloak of deepest red.
My striped cambric apron is fit for a queen
Embroidered with a plant and animal scene
Stiletto heels attached with screws
Give a lift to my fashionable shoes
Gloves of silk and buckles and rings
These are a few of my favourite things.
But beware, don’t think I’m loose a screw
A witless fool or quaking ingenue
Who’s timorous, lonesome, whimpering, weak
A simpering, cowering, beaten-down freak.
I will not go and hide from the crowd,
For my face is imperious, noble and proud
And I can assure you I’m always displayed
On the level pitch where games are played
At dances, races and masquerades
Round bonfires, at raffles and parades
At Sunday Mass and in market squares
Sashaying before males, inviting their stares.
But I’m at my wits end in the mating mart
I’ve nothing to show for it but a broken heart.
After all that effort, after all my flirtation
After all I’ve suffered in aggravation
After all the times my fortune was read
By toothless prognosticators looking ahead
There’s not a stroke that can still amaze,
From the waxing moon to its waning phase
From Shrove Tuesday to All Saints Night,
By making sense of my dispiriting plight.
I could never sleep peacefully in my bed
Without a sockful of fruit under my head;
’Twas surely no bother to devoutly fast,
Three canonical hours between each repast;
Against the current I’d wash my clothes
In the hopes that a bachelor would propose.
Often I would go and sweep out the byre
And my nails and hair I would throw in the fire;
The flail I’d hide in the gable’s shade
By the head of my bed I’d place the spade
I would put my distaff in the lime kiln
I’d secrete my yarn-ball in Reynolds’ mill
I’d scatter seed on the crown of the street
I’d stick a cabbage beneath the sheet.
From my recital it’s clear I don’t miss a trick
To see if I could get help from Old Nick
But the end of my story, the result of my tale
In spite of my efforts I’ve still got no male.
And what’s really painful and makes me gasp
Is how firmly I’m in the calendar’s grasp;
With grey old age rushing towards me undaunted
I’m terrified I’ll die alone and unwanted.
Pearl of Paradise, please hear my prayers
Have mercy, I beg you, and lighten my cares
Be sure not to leave me a ne’er-to-be wife
With a mateless, meaningless, loveless life
Without friends or family, a roof o’er my head
Depending on strangers for my daily bread.
By the thunder and the lightning in the sky
It proves me a fool, my life gone awry
That, in front of my face, Ireland’s biggest bitches
Are wallowing in wealth and reveling in riches
Saive snared a sucker with silver to spare
Muireann makes merry in her lover’s lair
Mór and Mairsile wench wantonly
And all of them make a mockery of me
Slaney and Shiela sparkle and glitter
Cecily and Anne each have their litter
There are others like them throughout the land
While milkless and childless before you I stand.

I’ve been powerless but patient for far too long
I can overcome my weakness and right this wrong:
Potions from dried-up herbs I’ll wring
Over which magic incantations I’ll sing.
That should snare a strapping young chap
Whom, in a web of love, I will trap.
’Tis many I have seen who play this game
Watch out! I’m about to do the same
It’s a great help for coupling, so they allege
To mix crushed apples and powdered veg
The purple orchid is an aphrodisiac
With mandrake’s root I will attack
And other plants that I cannot name
I’ll use with great relish in this ballgame
There’s the top secret about leaves that are burned
And other like intrigues that cannot be learned.
You know it took all Thomond by surprise
When a certain old nobody caught her prize
She told me how—in confidence, indeed—
That from Shrove to Samhain (when to wed he agreed)
She had drunk no wine nor ate no bread
But lived on a diet of burnt spiders instead.
So, I’ve long been waiting; I’m changing my fate
Don’t try to stop me, when I’m out of the gate.
If, from your visit, a resolution doesn’t appear
Then it’s on to Plan B and I’m outta here.


Then fiercely jumped up a grey old dodger
There was fire in the eyes of that greasy codger
His limbs were shaking, his breathing wild
It was clear that he was thoroughly riled.
He glared at the court with a look inflamed
And, in my hearing, he then declaimed: —
I wish you naught but damage and hurt
You miserable hussy, descended from dirt
I suppose it’s no wonder the sun is weak
And that Ireland’s lot is unbelievably bleak
Our rights are gone, the law’s a laugh
Our cows, once fertile, without milk or calf.
It’s no great surprise about the country’s woes
With Mór and Síle sporting the latest clothes.
You’re an absolute transcendental bitch
Everyone knows you were born in a ditch
Your ugly ancestors can’t boast of their blood
They’re aimless louts, sprung from the mud.
Everyone knows your father’s a creep
Without friends or fame, common and cheap
A grey old yo-yo with no erudition
Without cup or bowl, racked with malnutrition,
Not a stitch his back, no coat on his body
A súgán for a belt, his footwear shoddy.
Believe me, people, if he was sold at the fair
Of all of his debts he couldn’t take care
By the saints who are holy, ’twould make the news
If he then could afford a bottle of booze.
It’s a cause of merriment, both loud and deep
That a reject like you, with no cows or sheep
Sports buckles on your shoes, a fancy silk frock
And a protecting scarf the wind to block.
You dazzle the whole world with your face
But I know for a fact you’re for a bloody disgrace.
Your mendacity’s so clear, it’s hard to address
Your back is a stranger to a decent dress
But that deficiency, no one believes
It’s hidden with ruffs and cambric sleeves.
Canvas as a waist binder is low in price
And maybe it’s stays that’s the flattening device.
The world spies your rings and fringes of gauze
While your gloves cover up the dirt on your paws.
But tell the court, or I myself will reveal, —
How long since you’ve had a drink with your meal
You miserable slob with the dirty feet
Unseasoned Bucks aren’t much of a treat
It’s plain to me why you should hang your head
I saw with my own eyes where you make your bed
With no sheet beneath you, either fine or rough
Spun on a wheel from even the coarsest stuff
But a dirty mat without a quilt or a spread
Without a blanket or comforter to cover the bed.
Your cabin is without a place for a seat
Dripping soot from above; oozing mud from beneath
Rank weeds flourishing in profusion galore
And chicken tracks scratched across the floor
The roofline sagging; the gables leaning
The brown rain pouring down through the ceiling.
O company of seers, how loud she does shout
A blustery braggart who goes about
In colourful clothes and silken cloaks
It is certain the money didn’t come from her folks.
From where the look of which you crow
And how did you earn the necessary dough;
It’s hard to believe it’s from an honest stroke
It’s not long since you were totally broke
Where did you get the price of the hoods
Tell us how you came by the expensive duds.
I won’t make the cost of your coat my affair
But how could you afford the fancy footwear?
O Aoibheal, peerless, kindly queen
I beg you, call on you, please intervene
I know that all in Ireland who reach man’s estate
Is firmly hooked by such a reprobate
One of my friends who lives up the road
Not very far from my own abode
Among the nicest boys you ever spied
Was snared into taking one as his bride
It pains my heart to see her around
Her hauteur, her pomp, her stuck-up frown
Cattle in her possession, her barley growing
Money in her pocket and gold overflowing.
I saw her yesterday on the side of the street
She was a large woman, in no way petite;
She shook her huge hips in a taunting way
With as much impertinence as she could display
Were it not that I am the soul of discretion
Unwilling to comment on any transgression
I could easily tell what I’ve heard told
How she carried on as a harlot bold
Stretched on the floor, causing a hullabaloo
In the street or the stable, her clothing askew.
Her story will live, she’ll be the subject of lore
She will be spoken of for evermore
In Ibrickane of the bread and wine
In Tirmaclane of the meadows so fine
By Manishmore’s and Ennis’ lowly and quality
In Killbracken, in Quin, and in Clareabbey
In Tradree of the beans where there are wild young fellows
And in Cratlea where outlaws hang from the gallows
Now, look, that’s all in the past, I know
And I might be willing to let it all go
But the other day I saw her on her ass
Outside of Garus lying on the grass
Spread on the ground without a stitch, so bare,
With a bogman from Doora in the County Clare.
It's a wonder to me, past all comprehension
Just to think of it fills me with hypertension, —
After fornicating with all, I just don’know
How she didn’t conceive till she wished it so.
It’s saying a lot for the power of the word
That not a minute of unnecessary delay was incurred
From the reading before the candles bright
Of the Ego Vos of the marriage rite
Her breasts were bursting with milk, I swear
After nine months with just a week to spare!

It’s the greatest peril to the single and sane
To be tied till death to the ball and chain,
In the grip of misfortune, jealousy rife,
As I learned for myself at a terrible price.
Everyone round here knows how I used be,
When I was single and gloriously free,
An important man, much wealth I did own
My door was wide open, my table did groan
A friend at court and the law on my side
Dominion and fame, with seers as my guide.
My words with wit and wisdom teemed
All the land and wealth of which I dreamed
My mind at ease, my brain without strife—
I lost it all when I married my wife!
She was a pleasant and graceful strip of a lass
Her posture and presence betokened class
The toss of her head showed off ringlets and curls
And the sheen on her cheeks fairly glowed like pearls,
She had the vitality of youth and a smile of bliss
And all her demeanour invited a kiss.
I shook with desire, my mind did reel
I fell besottedly in love, head over heel.
It’s certain, no doubt, it was retribution
For all my bad actions, my dissolution
Which fell with a vengeance for my transgression
From heaven above with cruel repression.
The clergy tied us tightly with the knot
In a damnable yoke we were firmly caught,
I cleared all the debts without demur or delay
From the extravagant folly of that fateful day
Give me due credit, I was able to treat
All of the rabble who came in from the street
Beggars all, the clerics were sated
The priest was delighted at how he was feted.
With torches lit, the neighbours around
The table with all sort of foodstuffs was crowned
The music was mighty, much drink was imbibed
It was a bash on a scale that can’t be described.
But the day I was baptised I wish I had died
Or some day since then before I had tried
To bed with a trollop who turned me gray
Deprived me of friends, caused my mind to decay.
But then I was warned by the young and the old
That she was a drunkard and a constant scold
With the rabble in sheebeens she was wont to mingle
And lay on the floor with the married and single
It took a while before her name was destroyed
The stories about her I long could avoid
Everyone kept mum who knew the situation
Afraid I would vanish, naked, in extreme agitation.
I would not listen, too blind to see
To the few who ineffectively told me;
I believed they were only slagging the groom
Until the whole story was told by her womb.
It was not a prank or idle prattle
Or a woman engaging in tittle-tattle
But the deed itself spoke loud and clearly
She gave me a son who was way too early!
God almighty, I nearly died of fright
To find a family at the end of that night!
There was a mighty commotion around the house
With a swaddled child and a retching spouse,
A draught of medicine on the coals being warmed
A can full of cream was being forcefully churned
A dish heaped high with sugar and goody
For the greedy midwife, Muireann Ní Cháimlia
A group of my other neighbours were gathered
Beside the fire where they quietly whispered.
One of them said, loud enough to hear: —
“Praise be to the stars that shine so clear,
Even though the nipper didn’t wait for the clock
He looks like he’s a chip cut off the old block.
Don’t you see now, Saiv, how the kid is the image
Of the old man’s form, his limbs and his visage!
The cut of his hands and those bold fists
And look at those legs and arms and wrists.”
They pondered long on the child’s supposed lineage
How he looked like me, inherited my image
The shape of my nose and how my brow glowed
The elegant form which on him I bestowed
The lay of my eyes and even my grin
How he was my very picture from head to shin.
Of course, not hide nor hair did I see of the pup, —
They said the draughts would screw him up! —
The crowd in the house kept him out of my sight
With their claim that the air would harm the mite.
By this time I was mad and breathing fire
I told them the consequences would be dire
I thundered, I stormed, I blustered, I swore
Till the women of the house could stand it no more.
They brought me the boy to settle me down, —
“Take him gently, don’t shake him around
He’s easily hurt; he’s close to dying
Don’t pick him up, leave him lying
Since she had a fall that brought on his birth
He’s close to death, not too long for this earth
We hope he’ll survive till the morning at least
When we’ll have a chance to call the priest.”
I loosened the confining bands and set him free
I looked at him carefully there on my knee
My God, I saw he was full of vim and vigour
And he looked like he had a healthy figure
The baby’s shoulders were stout, I declare,
He was firm in the feet, had a fine head of hair!
Well-formed ears and nails that were long
His hands, his wrists and his elbows were strong
His eyes and his nostrils were both healthily wide
I could see from his knees he’d have a powerful stride.
In short and in closing, it’s all I can say
That he was as fine a child as you’d see any day.
O Aoibheal, I beg you on behalf of my race
I place before you the people’s case
Judge us kindly, show us mercy
We’ve little sense but much jealousy
Change this law of the clergy’s yoke
And allow his freedom to the unmarried bloke.
If the population is on the wane
In Ireland’s green and fertile terrain,
Her race of warriors could be reborn yet
Absent the inanity of the marriage net, —
Why do we need those nuptial traditions
Paying for liqour and for musicians
Idlers eating all of your food
Guzzling your malt till thoroughly stewed.
When the Mother of God first conceived
No priestly blessing was received.
Many who are strong and altogether fine
Sprang from an illegitimate line
For love is a lustier sire than creed
And produces a healthier, heartier breed
The deaf or dumb or lame or blind
Among love children you generally won’t find;
They are stronger and faster, more right in the head
Than many begotten in a married bed.
I brought with me the proof of my stand
I have here with me one of that band!
Do you see him there, so quiet and polite?
Bring him here so we can see him right.
Look at him carefully, though he’s a youth
You will see indeed that I tell the truth
He’s a comely boy in form so grand
Can you see a flaw in his foot or hand?
He wasn’t sired by a sap with consumption
A worthless tramp, a gander without gumption
A formless lump who’s riddled with cancer
But a lively, powerful, active lancer.
It would be such a farce to tie for life
This sire of his to only one wife
Shapeless, spineless, waistless, sexless
Friendless, mindless, loveless, listless
To use his seed for only one womb
When he could be in many a bedroom.
This young lad proves without a lie
With his goodly arms and shapely thigh
That he’s a sapling who was the upshot
Of a fevered coupling when the blood was hot.
So please don’t subject millions, O Queen of the Sky
To a stupid rule with which they must comply
Awake to a life without a bond or chain
The country’s people, both mighty and plain
Allow them to be naturally combined
Couples from the peasantry and the refined.
Throughout the land may a new rule unfold
Of sexual freedom for young and for old.
This new law will make the Irish proud,
The new race will once again be endowed
With all the prowess of the heroes of old,
The likes of Goll mac Móirne the bold.
The sky will brighten, the fish will bite
The mountainy land will bloom with no blight
Men and women will sing your praise
And in joyful celebration their voices raise.


After the girl had heard his harangue
With great impatience, to her feet she sprang,
With fire in her eyes on him she gazed
And spoke in a voice that was trembling and crazed: —
By Craglea’s Crown, if I wasn't thinking
How your health is failing, your faculties sinking
And of the respect that’s due to this court
With my nails, I’d scratch your face and throat
I’d knock you with a mighty crash to the ground
And it would long be talked of how often you went down
Until I had cut your mortal cord
So that across Acheron you were being oared..
It’s beneath my dignity to answer you straight
You sniveling slimeball, your speech’s inchoate
But I want to inform the worthies of the court
Of the horrible life of one above your sort: —
She was vulnerable, without cattle or dough
Always freezing without heat or a throw
Tired of life, astray without direction
From pillar to post, with no relative’s affection,
Without rest or comfort by day or by night
Having to beg from strangers her daily bite.
This man promised her silver and gold
He promised her heat and shelter from cold,
A fair share of wealth and milk cows purebred
Comfortable nights on a down-covered bed
Warm hearths with turf so she wouldn’t freeze
Thick sod walls to keep out the breeze,
Well-secured roofs and doors and windows
Wool and linen to weave for clothes
’Twas known to the world and to this worm there
That not pleasure or warmth or a love affair
Drew this pearl of a woman to that block of ice
But that a life of want left her without any choice.
With him there would be no nights of pleasure
With this fat load, dropsical beyond measure;
With his leaden sinews and narrow shoulder
It was hard to see how the night could get colder.
Along with knarly knees and decaying feet
His dry sickly body was no young woman’s treat.
Is there a beauty alive who wouldn’t grow old
If she were married to a crock so cold
Who, even twice a year, didn’t have a wish
To see if she was a boy, whether flesh or fish?
She had this cold bag of bones lying by her side
Shriveled and woebegone, impotent, stupefied.
Oh! Wouldn’t she have loved just once a night
A little affection as was her conjugal right.
I don't believe people’ll think she was to blame
That she was an icy and frigid dame
This gentle girl with an amorous heart
It wasn’t in her nature to shirk her part.
With a lively lover she wouldn’t have quit
Once she was lighted, you know she’d stay lit.
With the proper partner she’d never take flight
Entranced on her back with her eyes shut tight
She wouldn’t jump with inappropriate fright
Attack like a cat or scratch or bite,
But lie with him in embrace combined
Side by side with legs entwined,
Exchanging sweet nothings, little white lies
Lips to lips, fingers stroking his thighs.
She’d often throw a leg over him in haste,
Caress him with her brush from knee to waist
But with this one here, she’d tear quilt from his body
Seeking to play with that cheerless dogsbody
Fondling or embracing didn’t stir that beast
Tickling his feet didn’t help in the least
I hate to tell you how she’d spend the night
Tossing and turning in her hopeless plight
Clasping the linens, to the bed-rail clinging
Her body shaking and her sweet lips trembling
Till the dawn of the day without a wink of sleep
Rocking to and fro in despair deep.
This leper speaks of women in casual tones
Without life in his loins or strength in his bones
If it was a gent with a heavy heart
Who had mounted this attack, I might take his part.
But is there a fox on the hill or a fish in the mere
A hunting eagle or a wandering deer
That’s so much without sense for a day or a year
That it’d go hungry when sustenance is near?
Have any of you heard tell, in the west or the east,
Of any class or breed or kind of a beast
That would search for food where nothing grows
And ignore the feast beneath its nose?
Answer me, you blackguard, without delay
I’d like to hear what you have to say: —
When you sup at an inn, is the food less nutritious
If others had found the same menu delicious?
Is the house weaker, the site less secure
If twenty million had inspected it before
Does it really bother you, you stiff old prude
Are you afraid of scarcity when you’re in the mood
Do you think it possible, were you to try
To drain the Shannon by drinking it dry?
To ebb a neap tide with a jug?
Or empty the ocean with a mug?
Next time, pause before saying what’s best unsaid
Wrap a cold compress around your head
Take a deep breath, don’t lose the rag
At the thought of women who like to shag
If she spent the whole day entertaining all
There’d be still enough for you to have a ball.
Bejasus, such jealousy could be understood
In a strapping, stout-hearted, sterling stud
Panting, pushing, pulsing, preening
Roistering, romping, rollicking, riproaring
A roving rogue, a sensitive searcher
A steadfast stalwart, a topnotch thresher
Not in an ossified oldster, a grumpy grunt
An incompetent idler, a reclusive runt.

Now, there’s another matter on my mind
That should give pause to womankind:
Why are they free of the married state
All of those priests of our ancient faith.
Granted that I might rightly cry and bawl
My patience is great, my rage is small
That, given how much we need a mate,
Those heart-throbs are taken off the plate.
It’s a pathetic sight for a needy maid
To see how well these priest are made
Their rosy cheeks, their smiles so bright
Their slender waists, their buttocks tight
Their beauteous forms, their youth so fresh
Their straight bones, their well-fed flesh
Their solid torso and steady back
Their undoubted strength, their love of the craic
They’re a welcome guest at the table of the seer
They’ve got silver and gold for whiskey and beer
Down for their beds and salt for their food
The best of wine to put them in the mood
Mostly they’re not long past their boyhood
And we girls know that they’re flesh and blood
If I thought they were angels or sexless saints
Or sickly creeps, I’d have no complaints
But they’re lusty youngsters with appetites unsated
In a torpid sleep while maids are unmated!
Most of these fellows, I truthfully believe,
Are lonely Adams asking God for an Eve
To be fair, it wouldn’t do
To hang the lot because of the few
Sinking the ship wouldn’t be the right plan,
Drowning the whole crew to get one man
Some have always been a right shower
Who are in the priesthood for the power
Tough old buzzards without any heart
Who think every woman is just a tart.
But others are from a different race
Full of love and full of grace.
Often the well-being of a farm is increased
Without just one visit from such a priest.
I can recall well their virtues being lauded
The number of their good works applauded,
I often heard throughout the land
A buzz of appreciation for this band,
I’ve seen incontrovertible evidence that many a son
Could call a priest a father in more ways than one.
Still, it bothers me greatly at the time
They spend on women past their prime,
While many a woman at best stage in life
Is left husbandless when she could be a wife.
In Ireland it has been demonstrably cruel
The damage that’s done by this aimless rule.
The trouble, I assert, O Fount of Wisdom
Is that clerical celibacy is the bane of Christendom
And is nothing if not an abomination.
I know I’m blind, I need an explanation
Tell us, if you know, the prophets’ sayings
What were the Lord’s apostles’ teachings
Where is it written that the Creator said
That the desires of the flesh shouldn’t be fed
Paul, in my opinion, never held that a vocation
Required abnegation of marriage, just fornication
To leave your relations and your parents’ house
And live for life with your wedded spouse.
Of course, it’s meaningless for a woman like me
To explain the law to your majesty,
O Spectral Pearl, you remember well
All of the stories that make up the Gospel
The meaning of the everlasting word
The parables of the Lamb you have heard
I give God’s married mother as the beau ideal
And the prophets’: rules promote women’s weal.
O Ghostly Seer, to you I plead
You who’re descended of heavenly seed
O Glorious Light, O Crown of the Throng
Hear my voice and help us along
Keep women’s plight firmly in your mind
The predicament of single womankind.
The number of maids, if this system doesn’t cease,
Will increase and grow like a flock of geese.
The smallest mite that you see in the street
Dirty urchins that are decrepit and not neat
You’d see how they’d improve, if they had for a day
Their fill of vegetables, curds and whey;
Like a bolt from the blue, all of a sudden
Their breasts would grow, they’d blossom and strengthen
It wounds my heart and raises my ire
And burns my mind with a mass of fire
To see so little prospect for much fun
With Munstermen outnumbered three to one.
Since the area is so poor and impotent
So utterly weak in this time so urgent
An empty Ireland where wastrels bray
And the youth of the country growing grey
A long spinsterhood seems a likelihood.
If I could find a man, either bad or good
I’ll cart him straight away to the altar
And tie him for life in a conjugal halter.


The day was dawning out in the street,
As Aoibheal rose up from her seat
She had a youthful glow on her form and face
Her voice was strong and full of grace
She clasped her hands and with vehemence
Instructed the bailiff to order Silence
The whole of the court gradually grew quiet
And she spoke these words in a voice so bright—
I find lot’s of merit in the case you bring
It was a hell of a speech, you poor young thing.
I see, and it’s a sight that’s certainly grave,
That the descendants of Orla, Mór and Meave
Are now sly connivers and spineless creatures
Creepy characters and poor alms-seekers
The lowliest of the low and the fairly well off
Desperately coveting the bloodlines of the toff.
These are the laws that will govern from this date:
One: He who reaches twenty-one without a mate
Shall be dragged off by the hair of his head
And tied to a tree there among the dead
His coat to be taken and he be made to strip
And the daylights beaten out of him with a whip.
Two: Those of the men who are old and sick
Who shamelessly failed to use their prick
And wasted the best years of their youth
Without giving pleasure however minute
With women willing, they could have had a spree
But hung round like Mad Sweeney in the tree
The design of their torture to you I entrust,
You women of dashed and disappointed lust;
Use female ingenuity to plan the details
Of a hell of fire and a rack of nails
Put your heads together and stay the course
I’ill give you the power to put it in force
You are free to punish the old men at will
In their case, I don’t care if you torture or kill.
In my commission to you, I don’t mind
How you treat the oldsters, blighted and blind
With their bony bodies and grimacing grins
Their lifeless loins and scabrous skins.
Three: If the young go about the job of copulation
Then my law will protect them from condemnation.
I’m grateful when I see working men, sometimes poor
Labouring so hard you’d think they’d faint for sure
Affectionate with their wives by day and by night
Protecting their good name with all their might
Standing by their side because it is right
To see these guys with kids would be such a delight
Four: I heard a rumour that I’ve kept under wraps—
I can’t stand women who can’t close their traps—
Don’t be too loud in spreading it around
Button the lip, safer to stay underground!
Don’t push it too hard with the bishops yet
That they’ll soon be married is a pretty safe bet.
The day will come if you’re quiet diplomats
When the Pope will issue the necessary diktats
A commission will examine the country’s state
And there’ll be released to you, free to mate,
Priests with fire in their blood and pulsing flesh
And the pick of these heart-throbs will fall into your mesh.
Five: Anyone else who is of woman born
Read him the riot act if he doesn’t reform
Don’t have anything to do with sons of bitches
Slovens without honour or Muireanns in britches
And Six: Keep on the track of the old greybeards
And be sure to clear Ireland of all such weeds.

That’s it, I must get going, I’ve appointments to keep,
Many a mile to go before I sleep
The journey before me won’t brook delay
Unfinished business here will wait a new day
I’ll be back, which to some is not good news
Those to whom I give the blues;
Who burnish their reputations when they spread
Stories about girls they’ve had in bed
Who noisily boast having their way with maids
So the public will judge them dashing blades
It gives these poltroons such a rush to the head
To scandalize the young, both single and wed
Their motives are not out of concupiscence
The desires of the flesh or crazed tumescence
The pleasure of the act or fire in the veins
But the notoriety that their conduct attains.
It’s not pursuing enjoyment that excites their senses
But the general hullabaloo caused by their offences.
Of course, it’s all ostentation, exhibitionism and show
With no more justification than that a chicken should crow
Stumbling, bumbling, impotent, cold
They couldn’t arouse a woman for silver or gold.
I’d deal with these miscreants right now, right here
But I’m out of time, have to pack my gear
I’ll throw the lot of them in the hoosegow
When I come back here a month from now.

I had observed Aoibheal closely through the night
When she finished, I began to feel very uptight
I experienced a profound fit of agitation
My body paralyzed, my mind in consternation
I thought that the ground and the building were shaking
And with the import of her words, I was also quaking.
The giant bailiff woman strides across the hall
When she stuck out that paw, I thought I’d fall.
She angrily grabbed me by the lug
And to the front of the room, I was drug.
There was the babe who was bummed at her fate
She clapped her hands, and jumping up straight
She fiercely said: You old bag of slime
I’ve had my eye on you for a very long time
It’s often I urged you, you heartless carrion
That it was time for you to think of marrying.
Who will speak for you against the indictment?
You don’t merit one word, you indolent serpent
Where is the proof of your amorous labours?
Where are the women who appreciate your favours?
Let’s examine him carefully, O Royal Lady,
We won’t find on him a disabling malady
Give him a once-over, thorough and complete
From the top of his head to the soles of his feet.
Grant you he’s no maiden’s prayer
But all the essential bits are there.
He’s too pale for me; I’d prefer him brown,
About the cut of his physique—well, I don’t frown
On people who have a hump on their back—
It’s often the one with a bod out of whack
Who is most proficient at wielding the lance
And bandy legs don't tell what’s in the pants.
Is there a secret nefarious plan
That keeps unmarried this aging man
Given how he’s liked by the lords of the barony
And how he lives with other classes in harmony,
His single state lets him sport and play
Lets him eat and drink and romp all day
In the quality’s company to dawdle and tarry
This shirker who could easily marry
Merryman seems a name for a merry man
But, in your case, I must say it just doesn’t scan
A creature like you is not in God’s design
A gray-haired virgin is not at all divine
I’m dying to get you in my grip
Your quick lip won’t let you give me the slip
Your crime is stamped in the lines on your forehead—
That you are age thirty and still not wed.
Listen to me, O fellow sufferers
This guy is one among those who torture us
The sorrow that has burdened me down,
Girls, I want to take it out on this clown.
Help me, I ask you, grab the dope;
Úna, hurry, fetch me a rope
Anne, where are you, don’t get lost
Mary, tie his hands to the post
Muireann, Meave, Shiela and Saiv
Feel free, go ahead, and skin him alive
As the fairy lady authorized last night,
Knot the rope good and tight
Be generous with the pain that you deal out
To the ass of Brian, the heartless lout;
Raise your hands high and lay on the whip
Use elbow grease to give it some zip
He deserves no less, cut him deep with each blow
Flay him evenly from head to toe
Let the crack of the whip be heard throughout Ireland
Put the fear of God in the unmarried band.
This new legislation is such a blast
We have to record the year it was passed: —
Figure: one thousand less one hundred and ten
Leaves eight hundred and ninety which when
Doubled gives the year Seventeen Eighty
From which we’ll date Year One of our history.
As she grabbed a pen my head did hang
In terror of more torture from that gang;
While she was writing down the date
Which the court members round her could corroborate
I woke from my sleep, my pit of despair
And realized with relief—it was just a nightmare.