Poetry Forum

These mountains are hardscrabble things
and hardly a thing grows on them, even the
bedraggled goats look sad, not to mention
the old folk, starving, huddled in cabins:

As I was going over the Cork and Kerry mountains,
I met with Captain Farrell and his money he was counting;
I first produced my pistol, I then produced my rapier,
saying "Stand and deliver, for a prisoner you are taken!"

Beyond the next little rise in the ground
you can still make out the crumbling foundations
of the mean little hut in which Fitzgerald Mór,
the last great Earl of Desmond, met his end.

I counted out his money and it made a pretty penny,
I stuck it in my pocket and I took it home to Jenny.
She smiled and she swore, she said she'd never leave me,
but the Divil take the women, boys, they never can be easy!

With your ring dumma doo dumma da!
Whack fol the daddy-O,
there's whiskey in the Jar

This ruler of the horizon, this son of his father,
defied the half-mad heretic Queen of England
who sent forth her soldiers and then spread famine upon the land,
and with all his people dying, Fitzgerald fled to the mountains.

I went up in my chamber all for to take a slumber,
I dreamt of gold and jewels, and sure it was no wonder!
but Jenny took my pistols and she filled them full of water,
then called for Captain Farrell to be ready for the slaughter.

Betrayal is no new thing, certainly not
in this rain-besodden, chess-playing country,
in which old habits and customs cause Irish grandees
to plot and scheme against one another

bitterly and hard, in a frenzy of local calculation,
entirely blind to the threat of the force outside.
Our cousins in Gaul, now France, some time ago
had quarreled and divided, had fallen to Caesar.

Next morning early, just before I rose for travel,
Up came a band of footmen and likewise Captain Farrell.
I went to draw my pistol, for she'd stole away my rapier,
I couldn't shoot the water, so a prisoner I was taken.

Fitzgerald Mór, deserted, broken, alone,
made his panicky way up the Cork and Kerry mountains,
shorn of all riches, a man on his own, stripped to the bone
and in search of succour and of human kindness.

I'd like to find me brother, the one who's in the army;
I don't know where he's stationed, be it Cork or in Killarney.
Together we'd go roamin' o'er the mountains of Kilkenny,
And I swear he'd treat me better than my darlin' sportin' Jenny!

You can view the remains of the cottage, now long gone,
if you step this way: stones, unlike people, do not disappear.
The humble owner of the place offered the great Lord shelter,
gave him bread and cheese, even a dram of precious whiskey.

Then, being a desparate sort of goat-like fellow,
hardscrabble-ish, not what you would call political,
he moved up from behind, cut Fitzgerald's throat
and sent his head to the English. Got paid for that.

Whack fol the daddy-O,
Whiskey in the Jar

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gerald_Fit ... of_Desmond
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org. in Feb. 2007 or thereabouts

A wee bit of the hard stuff. Very nice. I love the "frenzy of local calculation".

These English of whom you write. They sound like a thoroughly bad lot.

Cheers

David

These English of whom you write. They sound like a thoroughly bad lot.

Not a bit of it.

I don't know that the old Thin Lizzy song is adding much, except for a tendency to carry over its rhythm into the poem. Which doesn't work for very long.. I always thought it went "wait for my daddy-o". What's a whack fol"? hardscrabble-ish is a lovely word.I lost a stone once.

Thin Lizzy? Huh? Go back 150 years at least. Hardscrabbling.

The idea of the similar yet contrasting varieties of betrayal (one of the oldest themes in all literature) is very interesting.
The ballad of Jenny and Captain Farrel tells of a betrayal that is personal, individual and venal; while in the poem about the demise of Fitzgerald the betrayal is internecine (almost tribal) and political - although of course the political and personal seem closer together in the 16th century that they are supposed to these days. Sidney, Gilbert, Essex et al all had an eye and a half for the main chance.
The Jenny-Farrel ballad works, I think; but I'm not so sure about the Fizgerald. My feeling is that it needs a tighter rhythmic structure - though not necessarily a strict metrical one, as that might spoil the undoubted contrast.

I'd like to see it tightened up and made clearer. After all, we all thought we'd got rid of most of the venality in politics ,fools that we be.

Bren. I'm not as old as you.

Crustyman. I don't know who the "we" are who thought that we'd got rid of most of the venality in politics. But you can include me out.

Dedalus, much to commend in this, but for me I prefer the poem without the contrasting song. The title took me there anyway ! Not sure who you mean as being "half-mad heretic Queen of England" - a lone view if you are going to go down the historical road, although the Irish may well have a different view! Much of the harm to Ireland was done under Cromwell, and the worst famine, no Irish man will forget (even if they could forgive) was around 1854... but then Ireland's history has been a continual tragedy - even up to the current day if you throw the Catholic Church in. C/