Classic Poem

You messenger that comes from Rome,
The place whence bulls and sermons come,
Against our poets you appeal;
Well, show your writing and your seal.
Come, priest, display your written ban;
From Peter's heir, that holy man;
If 'tis too sacred to be shown,
Then make its general purport known.
We've stood your sermons long enough;
We want the authentic Roman stuff,
And even if you change your tone,
There's harm enough already done.
Rome never made your silly rules.
What, banish all the bardic schools?
Such mouldy style, such lore unsound
On Roman soil were never found.
Well, can't the document be shown,
That shall our royal art unthrone?
Come, Cleric, and obeYour call!
Come, out with your encyclical!
Words decent author never wrote,
And turgid stuff, not worth a groat,
Low English learning, misapplied
Against our bards, our country's pride!
In learned books sweet poetry
Is " Donum Dei" frequently,
And if the sense of this we sift,
'Tis very clear it means " God's Gift."
If 'tis forbid to pay for lays,
And good men are debarred from praise,
Why, then, perhaps, it does not matter
If scoundrels are immune from satire.
If this decree you do intend
To serve some economic end,
No one will starve, my reverend man,
For lack of your peculiar ban.
'Tis strange that when Saint Patrick came
From Rome he did not do the same,
And ban from Ireland ever more
The arts that were her joy before.
And Columcille would ne'er deny
Reward to verse that told no lie;
What could have made him so remiss,
If there be any truth in this?
From grassy Fodhla once before
The bards were sent to exile sore;
But Columcille, who held them dear,
Reversed their doom within a year.
'Tis said that at a bard's complaint
The holy statue of a Saint
Lent that presumptuous rogue a shoe;
There's nothing poetry cannot do!
The prize that can be given by none
I'll win from Blessed Mary's Son,
And if there's truth in what they tell
I'll get to Heaven for writing well.
The praise of men may rise and fall,
Then praise the Lord that made them all,
And when all earthly praise grows dim,
There's still the joy of praising Him.
By Him were all our blessings given,
Then praise the King of Highest Heaven!
Let land and sea alike proclaim
His noble acts and praise His Name!
Tho' verses be but vanity,
They have their own eternity,
And vain enough, when all is said,
The men for whom the verse is made!
And he that is to poets cold
Gains not thereby more steeds or gold,
And he that ne'er a verse can rouse,
Owns but till death his bulls and cows.
If verse expired, good gentlemen,
Where were your lays and histories then?
You'd know your sires but could not track
Your families much further back.
And were our fount of knowledge dry,
Who could to men of rank supply
The branches of their pedigree,
And Gaelic geneology?
What consequences would ensue
To gallant knights, the like of you,
Who could not, if no poet sang,
Detect the roots from which you sprang?
Unknown were skirmish, raid and fight,
Unknown the feats of bravest knight,
When once his valient deeds were done,
Each king and royal house unknown.
Tho' Guaire died he liveth yet
And who Cuchulain shall forget?
The Red Branch Hall is honored still,
And Brian lives and ever will.
They perish not who praised are;
Is Conall dead or Concobar?
They have not passed from Fodhla's plains,
And Fergus yet with us remains.
And Lugh that fell before MacCuill,
No bone of him remaineth still,
And yet so bright his fame appears
'Twill keep him deathless through the years.
The good, the valiant and the strong,
Their deeds survive in bardic song,
Or swift oblivion's shroud would fall
On Niall and Cormac, Conn and all.
You Kings that rule in hall and fort,
The poets shall your stock support;
In north or south or east or west,
'Tis they uphold your house the best.
If there be not a voice to sing,
With lute and harp accompanying,
The glorious feats of men of worth
Will pass for ever from the earth.
Oh, shall our nobles cease to trace
Their fathers' fame, their lordly race?
Let poets their achievements tell,
Or bid the ancient times farewell.
Did all forget what poets sing
Of ancient huntsman, warrior, king,
Nor learned of Donal or of Conn,
The bondsman and the free were one!
So, Irishmen, if this decree
Expel the bards, where shall we be?
For every Gael that shows so brave
Is nothing better than a slave!