Classic Poem

Twas my pleasure to walk in the river meadows
In the thick of the dew and the morning shadows,
At the edge of the woods in a deep defile,
At peace with myself in the first sunshine.
When I looked at Lough Graney my heart grew bright,
Ploughed lands and green in the morning light,
Mountains in ranks with crimson borders
Peering above their neighbours' shoulders.
The heart that never had known relief

In a lonesome old man distraught with grief
Without money or home or friends or ease
Would quicken to glimpse beyond the trees
The ducks sail by on a mistless bay
And a swan before them leads away,
A speckled trout that in their tracks
Splashed in the air with arching back,
The grey of the lake and the waves around
That foamed at its edge with a hollow sound.
Birds in the trees sang merry and loud,
A fawn flashed out of the shadowy wood,
Lowing horn and huntsman's cry,
Belling hounds and fox slipped by.

Yesterday morning the sky was clear,
The sun fell hot on river and mere,
Her horses fresh and with gamesome eye
Harnessed again to assail the sky;
The leaves were thick upon every bough
And ferns and grass as thick below,
Sheltering bowers of herbs and flowers
That would comfort a man in his dreariest hours.
A longing for sleep bore down my head,
And in the grass I scooped a bed
With a hollow behind to house my back,
A place for my head and my legs stretched slack.
What more could I ask? I covered my face
To keep off the flies as I slept for a space
But my mind in dream was filled with grief
And I tossed and groaned as I sought relief.

I had only dozed when I felt a shock
And all the landscape seemed to rock,
A north wind made my senses tingle
And thunder crackled along the shingle,
And as I looked up, as I thought, awake
I seemed to see at the edge of the lake
As ugly a brute as a man could see
In the shape of a woman approaching me,
For if I calculated right
She must have been twenty feet in height
With several yards of a hairy cloak
Trailing behind her in the muck.
I never beheld such a freak of nature;
She hadn't a single presentable feature,
And her grinning jaws with the fangs stuck out
Would be cause sufficient to start a rout,
And in a hand like a weaver's beam
She raised a staff that it might be seen
She was coming to me on a legal errand
For pinned to the staff was a bailiff's warrant.

And she cried in a voice with a brassy ring
" Get up out of this, you lazy thing!
That a man of your age can think 'tis fitting
To sleep in a ditch while the court is sitting!
An honester court than ever you knew
And far too good for the likes of you;
Justice and Mercy, hand in hand,
Sit in the courts of Fairyland.
Let Ireland think, when her troubles are ended
Of those by whom she was befriended.
In Moy Graney palace twelve days and nights
They've sat, discussing your wrongs and rights,
And it saddened the heart of the fairy king
And his lords and influential men
When they studied the cause of each disaster
That happened your people, man and master;
Old stock uprooted on every hand,
Without claim to their rent or laws or land;
The country waste and nothing behind
Where the flowers were plucked but the weeds and wild;
The best of your breed in foreign places,

And upstart rogues with impudent faces
Planning with all their guile and spleen
To pick the bones of the Irish clean.
But the worst of all these bad reports
Was that truth was darkened in their courts,
And nothing to back a poor man's case
But whispers, intrigue and the lust for place;
The lawyer's craft and the rich man's might,
Cozening, favour, greed and spite;
Maddened with jobs and bribes and malice,
Anarchy loose on cot and palace.

" Twas all discussed, and along with the rest
There were women in scores who came to attest
A plea that concerns yourself as well,
That the youth of the country's gone to hell,
And the population in decline
As only happened within your time;
Nothing but weeds for the want of tillage
Since famine and war have struck the village
And a flighty king and the emigration —
And what have you done to restore the nation?
Shame on you there without chick nor child
And women in thousands running wild;
The blossoming tree and the young green shoot,
The strap that would sleep with any old root,
The little white saint at the altar rail
And the proud cold girl like a ship in sail —
What matter to you if their beauty founder,
If belly and breast will never be rounder,
If ready and glad to be mother and wife
They drop, unplucked, from the boughs of life?
" And, having considered all reports,

'Twas agreed that in place of the English courts
They should select a judge by lot
Who would hold enquiry on the spot.
Then Eevul, Queen of the Grey Rock,
That rules all Munster, herd and flock,
Arose and offered to do her share
By putting an end to injustice there,
And the great council swore her in
To judge the women and the men,
To stand by the poor though all ignore them
And humble the pride of the rich before them,
Make might without right conceal its face
And use her might to give right its place.
Her favour money will not buy,
No lawyer will pull the truth awry;
The smartest perjurer will not dare
To make a show of falsehood there.
Her court is sitting today in Feakle,
So off with you now as quick as you're able.
Come on, I say, and give no back chat
Or I'll use my powers and knock you flat. "
With the crook of her staff she hooked my cape
And away we went at a terrible rate
Off through the glens in one wild rush
Till we stood at Moinmoy by the ruined church.

Then I saw with an awesome feeling
A building ablaze from floor to ceiling,
Lighted within by guttering torches
Among massive walls and echoing arches,
And the Queen of the Fairies sat alone
At the end of the hall on a gilded throne,
And keeping back the thronged beholders
A great array of guns and soldiers.
I stared at it all, the lighted hall,
Crammed with faces from wall to wall,
And a young woman with downcast eye,
Attractive, good-looking and shy,
With long and sweeping golden locks
Who was standing alone in the witness box;
But the cut of her spoke of some disgrace,
I saw misfortune on her face;
Her tearful eyes were red and hot
And her passions bubbled as in a pot,
And whatever the devil it was provoked her
She was silent, all but the sobs that choked her.
You could see from the way the speaking failed her
That she'd sooner her death than the thing that ailed her.
But unable to express her meaning
She wrung her hands and continued her grieving,
And all we could do was stand and gaze
Till her sobs gave place to a broken phrase,
And little by little she mastered her sorrows,
And dried her eyes and spoke as follows —

" Yourself is the woman we're glad to see
Eevul, Queen of Carriglee,
Our moon at night, our morning light,
Our comfort in the teeth of spite,
Mistress of the host of delight,
Munster and Ireland stand in your sight.
My chief complaint and principal grief?
The thing that gives me no relief,
That sweeps me from harbour in my mind
And blows me like smoke upon every wind,
Is all the women whose charms miscarry
All over the land and who'll never marry;
Bitter old maids without house or home,
Put on one side through no fault of their own.
I know myself from the little I've seen

Enough and to spare of the sort I mean,
And to give an example, here am I
While the tide is flowing left high and dry.
Wouldn't you think I must be a fright
From the way I'm left at the start of life,
Heartsick, bitter, dour and wan,
Unable to sleep for the want of a man,
But how can I lie in a lukewarm bed
With all the thoughts that come into my head?
Indeed, 'tis time that somebody stated
The way that the women are situated,
For if men go on their path to destruction
There will nothing be left to us but abduction.
Their appetite wakes with age and blindness
When you'd let them cover you only from kindness
And offer it up for the wrongs you'd done
In hopes of reward in the life to come;
And if one of them weds in the heat of youth
When the first down is on his mouth
It isn't some woman of his own sort,
Well-shaped, well-mannered or well-taught,
Some mettlesome girl that studied behaviour,
To sit and stand and amuse a neighbour,
But some pious old prude or sour defamer
Who sweated the couple of pounds that shame her.
There you have it. It has me melted,
And makes me feel that the world's demented:
A county's choice for brains and muscle,
Fond of a lark and not scared of a tussle,
Decent and merry and sober and steady,
Good-looking, gamesome and rakish and ready,
A boy in the blush of his youthful vigour
With a gracious flush and a passable figure
Finds a fortune the best attraction
And sires himself off on some bitter extraction,
Some fretful old maid with her heels in the dung

And pious airs and venomous tongue,
Vicious and envious, nagging and whining,
Snoozing and snivelling, plotting, contriving —
Hell to her soul, an unmannerly sow
With a pair of bow legs and hair like tow
Went off this morning to the altar
And here am I still without hope of the halter!
Couldn't some man love me as well?
Amn't I plump and sound as a bell,
Lips for kissing and teeth for smiling,
Blossomy skin and forehead shining?
My eyes are blue and my hair is thick
And coils in streams about my neck —
A man that's looking for a wife,
Here's a face that will keep for life!
Hand and arm and neck and breast,
Each is better than the rest.
Look at my waist! My legs are long,
Limber as willows and light and strong,
There's bottom and belly that claim attention
And the best concealed that I needn't mention.
I'm the sort that a natural man desires,
Not a freak or a death-on-wires,
A sloven that comes to life in flashes,
A creature of moods with her heels in the ashes,
Or a sluggard stewing in her own grease,
But a good-looking girl that's bound to please.
If I were as slow as some I know,
To stand up for my rights and my dress show,
Some brainless, ill-bred country mope,
You could understand if I lost hope;
But ask the first you meet by chance,
Hurling match or race or dance,
Pattern or party, market or fair,
Whatever it was, was I not there?
And didn't I make a good impression,

Turning up in the height of fashion,
My hair was washed and combed and powdered,
My coif like snow and stiffly laundered;
I'd a little white hood with ribbons and ruff
On a spotty dress of the finest stuff
And facings to show off the line
Of a cardinal cloak the colour of wine,
A cambric apron filled with showers
Of fruit and birds and trees and flowers,
Neatly fitting, expensive shoes
And the highest of heels pegged up with screws,
Silken gloves and all in spangles
Of brooches, buckles, rings and bangles.
And you musn't imagine I've been shy,
The sort that slinks with a downcast eye,
Solitary, lonesome, cold and wild,
Like a mountainy girl or an only child.
I tossed my cap for the crowds of the races
And kept my head in the toughest places;
Amn't I always on the watch,
At bonfire, dance or hurling match
Or outside the chapel after Mass
To coax a smile from the fellows that pass?
But I'm wasting my time on a wild-goose chase,
And my spirit is gone — and that's my case!
After all my hopes and sulks and passions,
All my aping of styles and fashions,
All the times that my cards were spread
And my hands were read and my cups were read,
Every old rhyme, pisherogue and rune,
Crescent, full moon and harvest moon,
Whit and All Souls and the First of May,
I've nothing to show for all they say.
Every night as I went to bed
I'd a stocking of apples under my head,

I fasted three canonical hours
To try and come round the heavenly powers,
I washed my shift where the stream ran deep
To hear a lover's voice in sleep;
Often I swept the woodstack bare,
Burned bits of my frock, my nails, my hair,
Up the chimney stuck the flail,
Slept with a spade without avail;
Hid my wool in the limekiln late
And my distaff behind the churchyard gate;
Flax in the road to halt coach and carriage,
And haycocks stuffed with heads of cabbage,
And night and day on the proper occasions
Invoked Old Nick and all his legions,
But 'twas all no good and I'm broken-hearted
For here I am at the place I started,
And this is the cause of all my tears,
I am fast in the rope of the rushing years
With age and want in lessening span
And death at the end and no hopes of a man.
But whatever misfortunes God may send,
Spare me at least that lonesome end!
Do not leave me to cross alone
Without chick nor child when my beauty's gone
As an old maid counting the things I lack
The scowling thresholds that hurl me back.
God, by the lightning and the thunder,
The thought of it makes me ripe for murder.
Every idiot in the country
That marries a man has the right to insult me.
Sal has a slob with a well-stocked farm,
And Molly goes round on her husband's arm;
There's Min and Margery lepping with glee
And never done with their jokes at me.
And the bounce of Susie! and Kitty and Anne
Have children in droves and a proper man,
And all with their kind can mix and mingle
While I go savage and sour and single.

" Now I know in my heart that I've been too quiet
With the remedy there though I scorned to try it
In the matter of draughts and poisonous weeds
And medicine men and darksome deeds
That I know would fetch me a sweetheart plighted
Who'd love me, whether or not he liked it.
Oh, I see 'tis the thing that most prevails
And I'll give it a trial if all fruit fails —
A powerful aid to the making of splices
Is powdered herbs on apples in slices.
A woman I know had the neighbours hopping
When she caught the best match in the county napping,
And 'twas she who told me under a vow,
That from Shrove to All Souls, and she's married now,
She was eating hay as she said by the pail
With bog-roots burned and stuped in ale —
I've waited too long and was too resigned,
And nothing you say can change my mind;
I'll give you a chance to help me first
And I'm off after that to do my worst! "

Then up there jumps from a neighbouring chair
A little old man with a spiteful air,
Staggering legs and sobbing breath
And a look in his eye like poison and death,
And this apparition stumps up the hall
And says to the girl in the hearing of all —
" Damnation take you, you bastard's bitch,
Got by a tinkerman under a ditch,
No wonder the seasons are all upsot
Nor every beating Ireland got,
Decline in decency and manners,

And the cows gone dry and the price of bonhams!
Mavrone, what more can we expect
With Doll and Moll and the way they're decked?
You slut of ill-fame, allow your betters
To tell the court how you learned your letters!
Your seed and breed for all your brag
Were tramps to a man with rag and bag;
I knew your da and what passed for his wife
And he shouldered his traps to the end of his life,
Without knowledge nor niceness, wit nor favour,
An aimless lout without friend nor neighbour.
The breeches he wore were riddled with holes
And his boots without a tack of the soles.
Believe me, friends, if you sold at a fair,
Himself and his wife, his kids and gear,
When the costs were met, by the Holy Martyr,
You'd still go short for a glass of porter.
But the devil's child has the devil's cheek,
You that never owned cow nor sheep
With your buckles and brogues and rings to order —
You that were reared in the reek of solder!
However the rest of the world is cheated,
I knew you when you went half naked,
And I'd venture a guess that in what you lack
A shift would still astonish your back,
And shy as you seem, an inquisitive gent
Might study the same with your full consent.
Bosom and back are tightly laced
Or is it the stays that gives you the waist?
Oh, all can see the way you shine
But your looks are no concern of mine.
Now tell us the truth and don't be shy,
How long are you eating your dinner dry?
A meal of spuds without butter or milk
And the dirt in layers beneath your silk.
Bragging and gab becomes your like

But I know just where you sleep at night,
And blanket or quilt you never saw
But a strip of old mat and a bundle of straw
In a dirty hut without a seat
And the slime that slashes about your feet,
A carpet of weeds from door to wall
And the hens inscribing their tracks on all;
The rafters in with a broken back
And the brown rain lashing through every crack —
'Twas there you learned to look so fine;
But now, may we ask, how you came by the style?
We all admired the way you spoke —
But whisper, treasure, who paid for the cloak?
A sparrow with you would die of hunger —
And how did you come by all the grandeur,
All the tassels and all the lace?
Would you have us believe they were got in grace?
That frock made a hole in somebody's pocket,
And it wasn't yourself that paid for the jacket,
But leaving that and the rest aside,
Tell us, just how did the shes arrive?

" Your worship, 'tis women's sinful pride
And that alone has the world destroyed!
Every young fellow that's ripe for marriage
Is hooked like this by some tricky baggage,
And no man is secure. For a friend of my own,
As nice a boy as ever I've known
That lives from me only a perch or two,
God help him, married misfortune too.
It breaks my heart to see her go by
With her saucy looks and her head held high,
Cows to pasture and fields of wheat,
And money to spare, and all deceit;
Well-fitted to rear a tinker's clan
She waggles her hips at every man;
With her brazen face and bullock's hide
And such airs and graces, and mad with pride.
And — that God may judge me! — only I hate
A scandalous tongue, I could relate
Things of that woman's previous state
As one with whom every man might mate
In any convenient field or gate
As the chance would come to him, early or late!
But now, of course, we must all forget
Her galloping days and the pace she set,
The race she ran in Ibrackane,
In Manishmore and Teermaclane,
With young and old of the meanest rabble
Of Ennis, Clareabbey and Quin astraddle;
Toughs from Tradree out on a fling
And Cratlee cutthroats sure to swing;
And still I'd say 'twas the neighbours' spite
And the girl did nothing but what was right,
But the devil take her and all she showed
I found her myself on the public road
On the naked earth with a bare backside
And a Garus turfcutter astride!
Is it any wonder my heart is failing
That I feel that the end of the world is nearing
When, ploughed and sown to all men's knowledge,
She can manage the child to arrive with marriage,
And even then, put to the pinch,
Begrudges Charity an inch,
For counting from the final prayer
With the candles quenched and the altar bare
To the day when her offspring takes the air
Is a full nine months with a week to spare?

" But you see the troubles a man takes on;
From the minute he marries his peace is gone,
Forever in fear of a neighbour's sneer,
And my own experience cost me dear.
I lived alone as happy as Larry,
Till I took it into my head to marry;
Tilling my fields with an easy mind
And going wherever I felt inclined,
Welcomed by all as a man of price,
Always ready with good advice;
The neighbours listened, they couldn't refuse
For I'd money and stock to uphold my views;
Everything came at my beck and call
Till a woman appeared and destroyed it all.
A beautiful girl with ripening bosom,
Cheeks as bright as apple blossom,
Hair that glimmered and foamed in the wind
And a face that blazed with the light behind,
A tinkling laugh and a modest carriage
And a twinkling eye that was ripe for marriage.
I goggled and gaped like one born mindless
Till I took her face for a form of kindness,
Though that wasn't quite what the Lord intended
For He marked me down like a man offended
For a vengeance that wouldn't be easy mended
With my folly exposed and my comfort ended.

" Now not to detain ye here all day,
I married the girl without more delay,
And I took my share in the fun that followed;
There was plenty for all and nothing borrowed.
Be fair to me now, there was no man slighted;
The beggarmen took the road delighted,
The clerk and the mummers were elevated
And the priest went home with his purse well weighted.
The lamps were lit; the guests arrived,
The supper was ready; the beer was plied;
The fiddles were flayed and the night advancing
The neighbours joined in the sport and dancing.

" A pity to God I didn't smother
When first I took the milk from my mother
Or any day I ever broke bread
Before I brought that woman to bed!
For though everyone talked of her carouses
As a scratching post of the publichouses
That as sure as ever the glasses would jingle,
Flattened herself to married and single.
Admitting no modesty to mention,
I never believed but 'twas all invention.
They added, in view of the life she led,
I might take to the roads and beg my bread;
But I took it for talk and hardly minded;
Sure a man like me could never be blinded! —
And I smiled and nodded and off I tripped
Till my wedding night when I saw her stripped,
And knew too late that the thing was no libel
Spread in the pub by some jealous rival —
By God, 'twas a fact, and well-supported
I was a father before I started!

" So there I was in the cold daylight
A family man after one short night,
The women around me, scolding, preaching,
The wife in bed and the baby screeching,
Stirring the milk while the kettle boiled,
Making a bottle to give the child.
All the old hags at the hob were cooing
As if they believed it was all my doing,
Flattery worse than ever you heard,
" Glory and praise to Our Blessed Lord,
Though he came in a hurry, the poor little creature,
He's the spit of his da in every feature.
Sal, will you look at the cut of that lip!
There's fingers for you! Feel his grip!
Would you measure the legs and the rolls of fat
Was there ever a seven-months' child like that?"
And they traced away with great preciseness
My matchless face in the baby's likeness;
The same snub nose and frolicsome air
And the way I laugh and the way I stare,
And they swore that never from head to toe
Was a child that resembled his father so.
But they wouldn't let me go near the wonder —
" Sure a draught would blow the poor child asunder!"
All of them out to blind me further —
" The least little breath would be noonday murder!"
Malice and lies, and I took the floor
Mad with rage and I cursed and swore,
And ordered them all to leave my sight,
They shrunk away with their faces white,
And they said as they handed me up the baby,
" Don't crush him now. Can't you handle him easy?
The least thing hurts them. Treat him kindly!
Some fall she got brought it on untimely.
Don't lift his head but leave him lying.
Poor innocent scrap, and to think he's dying!
If he lives at all till the end of day
Till the priest will come 'tis the most we'll pray!"

" I off with the rags and set him free
And studied him well as he lay on my knee,
That too, by God, was nothing but lies
For he staggered myself with his kicks and cries;
A pair of shoulders like my own,
Legs like puddings and hair full grown;
His ears stuck out and his nails were long,
His hands and wrists and elbows strong;
His eyes were bright, his nostrils wide,
And the knee-caps showing beneath his hide —
A champion, begod, a powerful whelp,
Hearty and healthy as myself.

" Young woman, I've made my case entire.
Justice is all that I require.
Once consider the terrible life
We lead from the minute we take a wife,
And you'll find and see that marriage must stop
And the men that's not married must be let off.
And child of grace, don't think of the race,
Plenty will follow to take our place;
There's ways and means to make lovers agree
Without making a show of men like me.
There's no excuse for all the exploiters,
Corner-boys, clerks, and priests and pipers,
Idle fellows that strip you naked
And the jars of malt and the beer that's wasted
When the Mother of God herself conceived,
Without asking the views of clerk or creed;
Healthy and happy, wholesome and sound
The come-by-twilight sort abound;
No one assumes but their lungs are ample
And their hearts as good as the best example.
When did nature display unkindness
To the bastard child in disease or blindness?
Are they not handsomer, better-bred
Than many that comes of a lawful bed?

" I needn't go far to look for proof
For I've always one beneath my roof —
Let him come here for all to view!
Look at him now! You'll see 'tis true.
Agreed, we don't know his father's name,
But his mother admires him just the same,
And if in all things else he shines
Who cares for his baptismal lines?
He isn't a dwarf or an old man's error,
A paralytic or walking terror,
He isn't a hunchback or a cripple,
But a lightsome, laughing, gay young divil.
'Tis easy to see he's no flash in the pan;
No sleepy, good-natured, respectable man
Without sinew or bone or belly or bust
Or venom or vice or love or lust,
Buckled and braced in every limb,
Spouted the seed that flowered in him;
For back and leg and chest and height
Prove him to all in the teeth of spite
A child begotten in fear and wonder
In the blood's millrace and the body's thunder.

" Down with marriage! 'Tis out of date,
It exhausts the stock and cripples the state.
The priest has failed with his whip and blinker
Now give a chance to Tom the Tinker,
And mix and mash in nature's can
The tinker and the gentleman;
Let lovers in every lane extended
Follow their whim as God intended,
And in their pleasure bring to birth
The morning glory of the earth;
The starry litter, girl and boy
That will see the world once more with joy.
Clouds will break and skies will brighten,
Mountains bloom and spirits lighten
And men and women praise your might,
You who restore the old delight. "

The girl had listened without dissembling,
Then up she started, hot and trembling,
And she answered him with eyes alight
And a voice that shook with squalls of spite:
" By the Crown of the Rock, I thought in time
Of your age and folly and known decline
And the manners I owe to people and place
Or I'd paint my nails in your ugly face.
I'd scatter your guts and tan your hide
And ferry your soul to the other side
I'd honour you much if I gave the lie
To an impudent speech that needs no reply;
'Tis enough if I tell the sort of life
You led your unfortunate, decent wife.

" This girl was poor, she hadn't a home,
Hadn't a thing to call her own;
Drifting about, ignored, despised,
Doing odd jobs for other men's wives;
As if for drudgery created
Begging a crust from women she hated.
He pretended her troubles were over,
Married to him she'd live in clover;
The cows she milked would be her own,
The feather bed and the decent home;
The stack of turf, the lamp to light,
The sodded wall of a winter's night;
Flax and wool to weave and wind,
The womanly things for which she pined.
Even his friends couldn't have said
That his looks were such that she lost her head.
How else would he come by such a wife
But that ease was the alms she asked of life?
What possible use could she have at night
For dourness, dropsy, bother and blight,
A basket of bones with thighs of lead,
Knees absconded from the dead,
Reddening shanks and temples whitening,
Looking like one that was struck by lightning?
Is there living a girl that could grow fat
Tied to a travelling corpse like that;
That twice a year wouldn't find a wish
To see what was she, flesh or fish,
But dragged the clothes about his head
Like a wintry wind to a woman in bed?

" Now was it too much to expect as right
A little attention once a night?
From all I know she was never accounted
A woman too modest to be mounted;
Gentle, good-humoured and God-fearing,
We need never suppose she denied her rearing.
Whatever the lengths his fancy ran
She wouldn't take fright from a mettlesome man,
And would sooner a boy would be aged a score
Than himself on the job for a week or more;
And dancing at night or Mass at morning,
Fiddle or flute or choir or organ,
She'd sooner the tune that boy would play
As midnight struck or at break of day.
Damn it, you know we're all the same,
A woman nine months in terror and pain,
The minute that Death has lost the game —
Good morrow, my love, and she's off again!
And then imagine what 'twas like
With a fellow like that in the bed at night
That never came close in a friendly way
From All Souls' Night to St. Brigid's Day!
You'd all agree 'twas a horrible fate —
Sixty winters on his pate;
An old dead tree with its timbers drained
And a twenty year old with her heart untamed
It wasn't her fault if things went wrong;
She closed her eyes and held her tongue;
She was no querulous, restless, bawling,
Rearing, leaping, pinching, scrawling,
Hussy from school who smooth and warm
Cushioned him like a sheaf of corn.
Line by line she bade him linger
With gummy lips and groping finger;
Gripping his thighs in a wild embrace,
Rubbing her brush from knee to waist,
Strippin him bare to the cold night air,
Everything that a woman would dare;
But she'd nothing to show for all her pain,
His bleary old eyes looked just the same;
And nothing I said could ever explain
All her misery and shame
Her knees in the air and the clothes beneath her,
Chattering teeth and limbs in fever,
As she sobbed and tossed through a joyless night
And gave it up with the morning light.

" I think you'll agree from the little I've said,
That a man like this must be off his head
To live like a monk to the end of his life,
Muddle his marriage and blame his wife.
The talk about women comes well from him
Without hope in body or help in limb;
If the creature that found him such a sell
Has a lover today, she deserves him well;
A benefit nature never denies
To anything born that swims or flies;
Tell me of one that ever went empty
And died of want in the middle of plenty.
In all the wonders west and east
Did anyone hear of a breed of beast
That turned away from fern and hay
To feed on briars and roots and clay?
You silly old fool, you can't reply
And give us at least one reason why
If your supper is there when you come home late,
You've such hullabaloo about the plate.
Will it lessen your store, will you sigh for more
If twenty millions used it before?
You must fancy women are all like you
If you think they'll go dry for a man or two;
You might as well drink the ocean up
Or empty the Shannon with a cup.
Sure, you must see that you're half insane!
Try cold compresses, avoid all strain,
And stop complaining of the neighbours,
If every man jack enjoyed her favours,
Men by the hundred under her shawl
Would take nothing from you in the heel of all.

" If your jealousy even was based on fact
In some hardy young whelp well used to the act,
Covetous, quarrelsome, keen on scoring,
Or some hairy old villain hardened with whoring;
A vigorous slasher, a rank outsider,
A jockey of note, or a gentleman rider,
But a man disposed in the wrong direction
With a poor mouth shown on a sham erection!

" But oye, my heart will grow grey hairs
Brooding forever on idle cares,
Has the Catholic Church a glimmer of sense
That the priests won't marry like anyone else?
Is it any wonder the way I am,
Out of my mind for the want of a man,
When there's men by the score with looks and leisure,
Walking the roads and scorning pleasure?
The full of a fair of primest beef,
Warranted to afford relief,
Cherry-red cheeks and bull-like voices,
And bellies dripping with fat in slices,
Backs erect and heavy hind quarters,
Hot-blooded men, the best of partners,
Freshness and charm, youth and good looks
And nothing to ease their mind but books!
The best fed men that travel the country,
Beef and mutton, game and poultry,
Whiskey and wine forever in stock,
Sides of bacon, beds of flock.
Mostly they're hardy under the hood,
And we know like ourselves that they're flesh and blood;
I wouldn't ask much of the old campaigners,
The good-for-nothings and born complainers,
But petticoat-tossers aloof and idle
And fillies gone wild for bit and bridle!

" Of course I admit that some more sprightly,
Would like to repent and I'd treat them lightly.
A pardon and a job for life
To every priest that takes a wife!
For many a good man's chance miscarries
If you scuttle the ship for the crooks it carries;
And though some as we know were always savage
Gnashing their teeth at the thought of marriage,
And, modest beyond the needs of merit,
Invoked hell-fire on girls of spirit,
Yet some that took to their pastoral labours
Made very good priests and the best of neighbours.
Many a girl filled byre and stall
And furnished her house through a clerical call.
Everyone's heard the priests extolled
For the lonesome women that they consoled;
People I've heard throughout the county
Have nothing but praise for the curate's bounty;
Or uphold the canon to lasting fame
For the children he reared in another man's name;
But I hate to think of their lonely lives,
The passions they waste on middle-aged wives,
While the women they'd choose if the choice were theirs
Go by the wall and comb grey hairs.
It passes the wit of mortal man
What Ireland has lost by this stupid ban.

" I leave it to you, O Nut of Knowledge,
The girls at home and the boys in college,
I'm blest if I can see the crime,
If they go courting in their prime,
But you that for learning have no rival,
Tell us the teachings of the Bible;
Where are we taught to pervert our senses
And make our natural needs offences?
Fly from lust, advised St. Paul,
He didn't mean men were to fly us all,
But to leave their father and friends behind
And stick to the girl that pleased their mind.
I'm at it again! I must keep my place;
It isn't for me to judge the case,
And you, a spirit born and queen,
Remember the texts and what they mean;
With apt quotations well supplied
From the prophets who took the woman's side,
And the words of Christ that were never belied,
Who chose for His Mother an earthly bride.

" But, oye, what use is pishrogue and spell,
To one like myself in the fires of hell?
What chance can there be for girls like me
With husbands for only one in three?
When there's famine abroad the need advises
To look out for yourself as the chance arises,
And since crops are thin and weeds are plenty
And the young without heart and Ireland empty,
And to fill it again is a hopeless job,
Get me some old fellow to sit by the hob,
Bind him in every way you can —
And leave it to me to make him a man. "

Daylight crept in and the lights grew pale
And the girl sat down as she ended her tale;
The princess rose with her face aglow,
And her voice when she spoke was grave and low;
" Oyez, " said the clerk, to quell the riot,
And wielded his mace till all sat quiet,
And then from her lips while the hall was hushed
Speech in a rainbow glory gushed.
" My child, " she said, " I won't deny
That you've reason enough to scold and cry,
And as a woman, I can't but grieve
To see women like you and Moll and Maeve
With your dues diminished, your favours gone,
While none can enjoy a likely man
But misers sucking a lonely bone
Or hairy old harpies living alone.
I do enact according then
That all the young unmarried men
Shall be arrested by the guard,
Detained within the chapel yard,
Stripped and tied beside the gate,
While you decide upon their fate.
Those that you find whom the years have thwarted
With masculine parts that were never exerted,
To the palpable loss of some woman's employment,
The thrill of the milk and their own enjoyment,
Who having the chance of wife and home,
Took to the hills and lived alone,
Are only a burden on the earth,
So give it to them for all you're worth;
Roast or pickle them; some reflection
Will frame a suitable correction;
That you can fix at your own tribunal
And whatever you do will have my approval.
Fully grown men too old to function
You may punish without the least compunction,
Nothing you do can have consequences
To middle-aged men with failing senses,
And whatever is lost or whatever survives
We need never suppose will affect their wives,
Young men, of course, are another affair.
You may find them of use, so strike with care!

" There are poor men working in rain and sleet
Half out of their minds with the troubles they meet,
But men in name and in deed according,
They comfort their women by night and morning,
As their fathers did to console their mothers,
And these are the men I'd have for lovers.
In the matter of priests a change is due,
And I think I may say that it's coming too,
For any day now it may come to their knowledge
That the case has been judged by the cardinals' college,
And we'll hear no more of the ban on marriage
Before the priests go entirely savage;
And the cry of the blood in the body's fire
You can quicken or quell to your heart's desire,
But anyone else of woman born,
Flay him alive if he won't reform;
Abolish wherever my judgment reaches
The nancy boy and the flapper in breeches,
And when their rule is utterly ended
Give us the world that God intended.

" The rest of the work must only wait,
I'm due elsewhere and already late,
I have business there that I must attend
Though you and I are far from the end,
But I'll sit next month and God help the men
If they haven't improved their ways by then;
And mostly those who sin from pride
With women whose names they do not hide,
Who keep their tally of ruined lives
In whispers, nudges, winks and gibes.
Was ever vanity more misplaced
Than in married women and girls disgraced?
It isn't desire that gives the thrust,
The smoking blood and the ache of lust,
Weakness of love and the body's blindness,
But to punish the fools who show them kindness.
Thousands are born without a name
That braggarts may boast of their mothers' shame,
Men lost to nature through conceit,
And their manhood killed by their own deceit,
For 'tis sure, however, their wives may weep,
It's never because they go short of sleep. "

I had listened to every word she uttered,
And then as she stopped my midriff fluttered,
I was took with a sort of sudden reeling
Till my feet seemed resting on the ceiling;
People and place went round and round,
And her words came back as a jumble of sound,
As the bailiff strode along the aisle,
And reached for me with an ugly smile;
She nipped my ear as if in sport
And dragged me out and up the court.
Then the girl who complained of the way she was slighted
Spotted my face and sprang up, delighted.
" Is it you? " says she. " Of all the old crocks,
I'm waiting for years to comb your locks;
You had your chance and missed your shot,
And devil's cure to you now you're caught!
Is there anyone here will speak in your favour,

Or would anyone think you worth the labour?
What little affair would you care to mention
Or whom have you honoured with your attention?
Though we'll all agree that the man's no beauty,
You must admit that he's fit for duty.
I know he's ill-made and as ugly as sin,
But isn't he sound in wind and limb?
I'd sooner him pale and not so plump,
But I've no objection to his hump.
It isn't a feature that intrudes,
Or one that especially goes with prudes;
You find bandy legs with a frolicsome figure
And arms like pegs on a man of vigour;
To be sure the wretch has some secret reason
That kept him single out of season.
As welcome at the country houses,
As at the villagers' carouses;
Called in wherever the fun was going,
And the fiddles being tuned and the whiskey flowing —
I'll never believe that there's truth in a name;
A wonder the Merrymans stand the shame!
The doggedest divil that tramps the hill
With the grey in his hair and a virgin still.
O leave me alone till I settle the savage,
You can spare your breath to cool your porridge
The truth of it's plain upon your forehead,
You're thirty at least and still unmarried!
Listen to me, O Fount of Luck,
This fellow's the worst that ever I struck,
The venom of years that I've locked inside
Won't let me rest till I tan his hide.
Can't you all help me? Catch him! Mind him!
Winnie, girl, run and get ropes to bind him!
Where are you, Annie, or are you blind?
Sally, tie up his hands behind!
Molly and Maeve, you fools, what ails you?
Isn't it soon the courage fails you?
Take the rope and give him a crack,
Earth it up in the small of his back.
That, young man, is the place to hurt you,
We'll teach you to respect your virtue,
Steady now, till we give you a sample —
Women alive, he's a grand example!
Hurry now and we'll nourish him well!
One good clout till we hear him yell!
And the more he yells the harder we'll strike
Till we teach his friends to be more polite.
No blesseder act restored the nation,
We must write the date as a famous occasion,
The First of January, Seventeen Eighty — "

And there I stood, half stripped, half crazy;
For nothing, I felt, could save my skin,
And she opened her book and immersed her pen,
And she wrote it down with careful art,
While the women sighed for the fun to start,
I shivered and gave myself a shake,
Opened my eyes and was wide awake.