The Kiltartan Poetry Book | Page 8

waves.
His Answer When Some Stranger Asked Who He Was
I am Raftery the poet, full of hope and love; my eyes without light, my
gentleness without misery. Going west on my journey with the light of
my heart; weak and tired to the end of my road.
I am now, and my back to a wall, playing music to empty pockets.
A Blessing on Patrick Sarsfield
O Patrick Sarsfield, health be to you, since you went to France and
your camps were loosened; making your sighs along with the king, and

you left poor Ireland and the Gael defeated--Och ochone! O Patrick
Sarsfield, it is a man with God you are; and blessed is the earth you
ever walked on. The blessing of the bright sun and the moon upon you,
since you took the day from the hands of King William--Och ochone!
O Patrick Sarsfield, the prayer of every person with you; my own
prayer and the prayer of the Son of Mary with you, since you took the
narrow ford going through Biorra, and since at Cuilenn O'Cuanac you
won Limerick--Och ochone!
I will go up on the mountain alone; and I will come hither from it again.
It is there I saw the camp of the Gael, the poor troop thinned, not
keeping with one another--Och ochone!
My five hundred healths to you, halls of Limerick, and to the beautiful
troop was in our company; it is bonefires we used to have and
playingcards, and the word of God was often with us--Och ochone!
There were many soldiers glad and happy, that were going the way
through seven weeks; but now they are stretched down in
Aughrim--Och ochone!
They put the first breaking on us at the bridge of the Boyne; the second
breaking on the bridge of Slaine; the third breaking in Aughrim of
O'Kelly; and O sweet Ireland, my five hundred healths to you--Och
ochone!
O'Kelly has manuring for his land, that is not sand or dung, but ready
soldiers doing bravery with pikes, that were left in Aughrim stretched
in ridges--Och ochone!
Who is that beyond on the hill, Ben Edair? I a poor soldier with King
James. I was last year in arms and in dress, but this year I am asking
alms--Och ochone!
An Aran Maid's Wedding
I am widow and maid, and I very young; did you hear my great grief,

that my treasure was drowned? If I had been in the boat that day, and
my hand on the rope, my word to you, O'Reilly, it is I would have
saved you sorrow.
Do you remember the day the street was full of riders, and of priests
and brothers, and all talking of the wedding feast? The fiddle was there
in the middle, and the harp answering to it; and twelve mannerly
women to bring my love to his bed.
But you were of those three that went across to Kilcomin, ferrying
Father Peter, who was three-and-eighty years old; if you came back
within a month itself, I would be well content; but is it not a pity I to be
lonely, and my first love in the waves?
I would not begrudge you, O'Reilly, to be kinsman to a king, white
bright courts around you, and you lying at your ease; a quiet,
welllearned lady to be settling out your pillow; but it is a great thing
you to die from me when I had given you my love entirely.
It is no wonder a broken heart to be with your father and your mother;
the white-breasted mother that crooned you, and you a baby; your
wedded wife, O thousand treasures, that never set out your bed; and the
day you went to Trabawn, how well it failed you to come home.
Your eyes are with the eels, and your lips with the crabs; and your two
white hands under the sharp rule of the salmon. Five pounds I would
give to him that would find my true love. Ochone! it is you are a sharp
grief to young Mary ni-Curtain!
_A Poem Written in Time of Trouble by an Irish Priest Who Had
Taken Orders in France_
My thoughts, my grief! are without strength
My spirit is journeying
towards death
My eyes are as a frozen sea
My tears my daily food;

There is nothing in life but only misery.
My poor heart is torn

And my thoughts are sharp wounds within me,
Mourning the
miserable state of Ireland.

Misfortune has come upon us all together
The poor, the rich, the
weak and the strong
The great lord by whom hundreds were
maintained
The powerful strong man, and the man that holds the
plough; And the cross laid on the bare shoulder of every man.
Our feasts are without any voice of priests
And none at them but
women lamenting
Tearing their