A DEAD STORK AND A HOT NIGHT
Two pieces of verse by Eamon Henry. Date 15 July 2008
Introduction:
The first piece of the two verse compositions following is my own English translation, made in 1974, of the Gaelic poem “An Bonnan Buidhe” (meaning “the yellow bittern or stork”) by Cathal Buidhe Mac Giolla Gunna (Charles the yellow-haired Kilgun) born about 1690. He comes upon a dead yellow-coloured stork during a mid-winter session of ice and snow. In a light humorous vein, he compares himself closely with the bird, now dead, and sees them both together as comprising a brace of long-suffering yellow-haired topers!
The second piece, of title “A Frank Admission”, is my personal thoughts on a hot September night in Barbados during my 1999-2000 work-stint down there, and needs no further comment on what it has to say. Rather solemn stuff!
THE YELLOW STORK:
A sad day’s work, oh yellow stork! Your poor shanks stretched after all the crack!
Not for food, I think, but through want of drink, are you lying flattened upon your back!
Great Troy destroyed makes me less annoyed, than your corpse laid out on the stone’s bare top.Not a harm you brought, no deception wrought, you deserve good wine, not bog-hole slop!
My handsome scout, the heart goes out to your quiet head laid at my feet!How often I have heard your cry, while you drank your fill in the marshy peat!I Charles your friend will meet my end, from the drink, they say, let them think the worst!It will not be so, but like gallant crow, that lately died of excessive thirst!
Oh stork so young, my heart is stung, to see you there among the whins!The rats will stay at your wake all day, and it won’t be nice, when the sport begins!I am quite put out that you didn’t shout, that the times were bad, that your strength did fail.The ice I’d break on Vasey’s lake, you could have your fill of Adam’s ale!
My sad lament does not extend to blackbird, crane, or song-thrush fair.Of my stork I sing, great-hearted thing! Like me in his thirst and his yellow hair!His life he spent on drink intent. For myself betimes there’s the day or nightWhen each dram supplied goes down inside lest I die of thirst, a fearful plight!
The wife has said I’ll soon be dead unless I change my tipsy ways.My blunt reply: she speaks a lie, for the drink will rather prolong my days.Our stork, you note, had a well-oiled throat, yet he died last night of drought profound!So, good friends, don’t fret! Keep the wind-pipe wet! For no drop ye’ll get in the graveyard ground!
A FRANK ADMISSION:
Two pieces of verse by Eamon Henry. Date 15 July 2008
Introduction:
The first piece of the two verse compositions following is my own English translation, made in 1974, of the Gaelic poem “An Bonnan Buidhe” (meaning “the yellow bittern or stork”) by Cathal Buidhe Mac Giolla Gunna (Charles the yellow-haired Kilgun) born about 1690. He comes upon a dead yellow-coloured stork during a mid-winter session of ice and snow. In a light humorous vein, he compares himself closely with the bird, now dead, and sees them both together as comprising a brace of long-suffering yellow-haired topers!
The second piece, of title “A Frank Admission”, is my personal thoughts on a hot September night in Barbados during my 1999-2000 work-stint down there, and needs no further comment on what it has to say. Rather solemn stuff!
THE YELLOW STORK:
A sad day’s work, oh yellow stork! Your poor shanks stretched after all the crack!
Not for food, I think, but through want of drink, are you lying flattened upon your back!
Great Troy destroyed makes me less annoyed, than your corpse laid out on the stone’s bare top.Not a harm you brought, no deception wrought, you deserve good wine, not bog-hole slop!
My handsome scout, the heart goes out to your quiet head laid at my feet!How often I have heard your cry, while you drank your fill in the marshy peat!I Charles your friend will meet my end, from the drink, they say, let them think the worst!It will not be so, but like gallant crow, that lately died of excessive thirst!
Oh stork so young, my heart is stung, to see you there among the whins!The rats will stay at your wake all day, and it won’t be nice, when the sport begins!I am quite put out that you didn’t shout, that the times were bad, that your strength did fail.The ice I’d break on Vasey’s lake, you could have your fill of Adam’s ale!
My sad lament does not extend to blackbird, crane, or song-thrush fair.Of my stork I sing, great-hearted thing! Like me in his thirst and his yellow hair!His life he spent on drink intent. For myself betimes there’s the day or nightWhen each dram supplied goes down inside lest I die of thirst, a fearful plight!
The wife has said I’ll soon be dead unless I change my tipsy ways.My blunt reply: she speaks a lie, for the drink will rather prolong my days.Our stork, you note, had a well-oiled throat, yet he died last night of drought profound!So, good friends, don’t fret! Keep the wind-pipe wet! For no drop ye’ll get in the graveyard ground!
A FRANK ADMISSION:
Barbados gave a sweaty night, between the showers of rain.The throbbing drums of vans from slums did cause his ears to pain.The chirping frogs with barking dogs had joined in loud affray.They’d keep it up without a stop until the break of day.
He rubbed below with cream from tube, to try and stop the itch,And spray-gunned a mosquito, to kill blood-sucking bitch.While beetles all, both great and small, climbed up and down and flew. He laced a shot of rum with juice to boost his strength anew.
There are cool days and quiet nights without the sweat and noise,And these indeed could come again as deeply valued joys.The bracing air of Dublin hills refresh his thinning blood,Like throbbing cry of kestrel’s young tree-hopping through the wood.
Like hare and deer and whirring grouse and all the things that moveAmong the heather and the woods upon the hills above.He misses them but hopes indeed to find them all once more Where they will be when he is gone – a happy thought to store!
No comments:
Post a Comment