heart?What was it that the poets promised you,
If it was not their sorrow? Do not speak.
Have I not opened school on these bare steps,
And are not you the youngest of my scholars?
And I would have all know that when all falls
In ruin, poetry calls out in joy,
Being the scattering hand, the bursting pod,
The victim’s joy among the holy flame,
God’s laughter at the shattering of the world.
And now that joy laughs out, and weeps and burns
On these bare steps.
O master, do not die!
Trouble him with no useless argument.
Be silent! There is nothing we can do
Except find out the King and kneel to him,
And beg our ancient right.
For here are some
To say whatever we could say and more,
And fare as badly. Come, boy, that is no use.
If it seem well that we beseech the King,
Lay down your harps and trumpets on the stones
In silence, and come with me silently.
Come with slow footfalls, and bow all your heads,
For a bowed head becomes a mourner best.
‘Chief Poet,’ ‘Ireland,’ ‘Townsman,’ ‘Grazing land,’
Those are the words I have to keep in mind —
‘Chief Poet,’ ‘Ireland,’ ‘Townsman,’ ‘Grazing land.’
I have the words. They are all upon the Ogham.
‘Chief Poet,’ ‘Ireland,’ ‘Townsman,’ ‘Grazing land.’
But what’s their order?
The King were rightly served
If Seanchan drove his good luck away.
What’s there about a king, that’s in the world
From birth to burial like another man,
That he should change old customs, that were in it
As long as ever the world has been a world?
If I were king I would not meddle with him,
For there is something queer about a poet.
I knew of one that would be making rhyme
Under a thorn at crossing of three roads.
He was as ragged as ourselves, and yet
He was no sooner dead than every thorn tree
From Inchy to Kiltartan withered away.
The King is but a fool!
I am getting ready.
A poet has power from beyond the world,
That he may set our thoughts upon old times,
And lucky queens and little holy fish
That rise up every seventh year —
Hush! hush!
To cure the crippled.
I am half ready now.
There’s not a mischief I’d begrudge the King
If it were any other —
Hush! I am ready.
That died to get it. I have brought out the food,
And if my master will not eat of it,
I’ll home and get provision for his wake,
For that’s no great way off. Well, have your say,
But don’t be long about it.
Chief Poet of Ireland,
I am the Mayor of your own town Kinvara,
And I am come to tell you that the news
Of this great trouble with the King of Gort
Has plunged us in deep sorrow – part for you,
Our honoured townsman, part for our good town.
But what comes now? Something about the King.
Get on! get on! The food is all set out.
Don’t hurry me.
Give us a taste of it.
He’ll not begrudge it.
Let them that have their limbs
Starve if they will. We have to keep in mind
The stomach God has left us.
Hush! I have it!
The King was said to be most friendly to us,
And we have reason, as you’ll recollect,
For thinking that he was about to give
Those grazing lands inland we so much need,
Being pinched between the water and the stones.
Our mowers mow with knives between the stones;
The sea washes the meadows. You know well
We have asked nothing but what’s reasonable.
Reason in plenty. Yellowy white hair,
A hollow face, and not too many teeth.
How comes it he has been so long in the world
And not found Reason out?
What good is there
In telling him what he has heard all day!
I will set food before him.
Don’t hurry me!
It’s
