[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 cocks 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 shirt,
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!