Bereft of fine women-folk,
the brooklime for a brother -
our choice for a fresh meal
is watercress always.
Without accomplished musicians
without generous women,
no jewel-gift for bards -
respected Christ, it has perished me.
The thorntop that is not gentle
has reduced me, has pierced me,
it has brought me near death
the brown thorn-bush.
Once free, once gentle,
I am banished for ever,
wretch-wretched I have been
a year to last night.
He remained there in Glen Bolcain until he elevated himself high in the air and went to Cluain Cille on the border of Tir Conaill and Tir Boghaine. He went to the edge of the water and took food against the night, watercress and water. After that he went into the old tree of the church where he said another melodious poem on the subject of his personal hardship.
After another time he set forth in the air again till he reached the church at Snámh-dá-én (or Swim-Two-Birds) by the side of the Shannon, arriving there on a Friday, to speak precisely; here the clerics were engaged at the observation of their nones, flax was being beaten and here and there a woman was giving birth to a child; and Sweeny did not stop until he had recited the full length of a further lay.
For seven years, to relate precisely, was Sweeny at the air travel of all Erin, returning always to his tree in charming Glen Bolcain, for that was his fortress and his haven, it was his house there in the glen. It was to this place that his foster-brother Linchehaun came for tidings concerning him, for he carried always a deep affection for Sweeny and had retrieved him three times from madness before that. Linchehaun went seeking him in the glen with shouts and found toe-tracks by the stream-mud where the madman was wont to appease himself by the eating of cresses. But track or trace of Sweeny he did not attain for that day and he sat down in an old deserted house in the glen till the labour and weariness of his pursuit brought about his sleep. And Sweeny, hearing his snore from his tree-clump in the glen, uttered this lay in the pitch darkness.
The man by the wall snores
a snore-sleep that's beyond me,
for seven years from that Tuesday at Magh Rath
I have not slept a wink.
O God that I had not gone
to the hard battle!
thereafter my name was Mad -
Mad Sweeny in the bush.
Watercress from the well at Cirb
is my lot at terce,
its colour is my mouth,
green on the mouth of Sweeny.
Chill chill is my body
when away from ivy,
the rain torrent hurts it
and the thunder.
I am in summer with the herons of Cuailgne
with wolves in winter,
at other times I am hidden in a copse -
not so the man by the wall.
And thereafter he met Linchehaun who came visiting to his tree and they parleyed there the two of them together and the one of them talkative and unseen in branches and prickle-briars. And Sweeny bade Linchehaun to depart and not to pursue or annoy him further because the curse of Ronan stopped him from putting his trust or his mad faith in any man.
Thereafter he travelled in distant places till he came at the black fall of a night to Ros Bearaigh and lodged himself in a hunched huddle in the middle of the yew-tree of the church in that place. But being besieged with nets and hog-harried by the caretaker of the church and his false wife, he hurried nimbly to the old tree at Ros Eareain where he remained hidden and unnoticed the length of a full fortnight, till the time when Linchehaun came and perceived the murk of his shadow in the sparse branches and saw the other branches he had broken and bent in his movements and in changing trees. And the two of them parleyed together until they had said between them these fine words following.
Sad it is Sweeny, said Linchehaun, that your last extremity should be thus, without food or drink or raiment like a fowl, the same man that had cloth of silk and of satin and the foreign steed of the peerless bridle, also comely generous women and boys and hounds and princely people of every refinement; hosts and tenants and men-at-arms, and mugs and goblets and embellished buffalohorns for the savouring of pleasant-tasted fine liquors. Sad it is to see the same man as a hapless air-fowl.
Cease now, Linchehaun, said Sweeny, and give me tidings.
Your father is dead, said Linchehaun.
That has seized me with a blind agony, said Sweeny.
Your mother is likewise dead.
Now all the pity in me is at an end.
Dead is your brother.
Gaping open is my side on account of that.
She has died too your sister.
A needle for the heart is an only sister.
Ah, dumb dead is the little son that called you pop.
Truly, said Sweeny, that is the last blow that brings a man to the ground.
When Sweeny heard the sorry word of his small son still and without life, he fell with a crap from the middle of the yew to the ground and Linchehaun hastened to his thornpacked flank with fetters and handcuffs and manacles and locks and black-iron chains and he did not achieve a resting until the lot were about the madman, and through him and above him and over him, roundwise and about. Thereafter there was a concourse of hospitallers and knights and warriors around the trunk of the yew, and after melodious talk they entrusted the mad one to the care of Linchehaun till he would take him away to a quiet place for a fortnight and a month, to the quiet of a certain room where his senses returned to him, the one after the other, with no one near him but the old mill-hag.
O hag, said Sweeny, searing are the tribulations I have suffered; many a terrible leap have I leaped from hill to hill, from fort to fort, from land to land, from valley to valley.
For the sake of God, said the hag, leap for us now a leap such as you leaped in the days of your madness.
And thereupon Sweeny gave a bound over the top of the bedrail till he reached the extremity of the bench.
My conscience indeed, said the hag, I could leap the same leap myself.
And the hag gave a like jump.
Sweeny then gathered himself together in the extremity of his jealousy and threw a leap right out through the skylight of the hostel.
I could vault that vault too, said the hag and straightway she vaulted the carne vault. And the short of it is this, that Sweeny travelled the length of five cantreds of leaps until he had penetrated to Glenn na nEachtach in Fiodh Gaibhle with the hag at her hag's leaps behind him; and when Sweeny rested there in a huddle at the top of a tall ivybranch, the hag was perched there on another tree beside him. He heard there the voice of a stag and he thereupon made a lay euologizing aloud the trees and the stags of Erin, and he did not cease or sleep until he had achieved these staves.
Bleating one, little antlers,
O lamenter we like
delightful the clamouring
from your glen you make.
O leafy-oak, clumpy-leaved,
you are high above trees,
O hazlet, little clumpy-branch -
the nut-smell of hazels.
O alder, O alder-friend,
delightful your colour,
you don't prickle me or tear
in the place you are.
O blackthorn, little thorny-one,
O little dark sloe-tree;
O watercress, O green-crowned,
at the well-brink.
O holly, holly-shelter,
O door against the wind,
O ash-tree inimical,
you spearshaft of warrior.
O birch clean and blessed,
O melodious, O proud,
delightful the tangle
of your head-rods.
What I like least in woodlands
from none I conceal it -
stirk of a leafy-oak,
at its swaying.
O faun, little long-legs,
I caught you with grips,
I rode you upon your back
from peak to peak.
Glen Bolcain my home ever,
it was my haven,
many a night have I tried
a race against the peak.
I beg your pardon for interrupting, said Shanahan, but you're after reminding me of something, brought the thing into my head in a rush.
He swallowed a draught of vesper-milk, restoring the cloudy glass swiftly to his knee and collecting little belated flavourings from the corners of his mouth.
That thing you were saying reminds me of something bloody good. I beg your pardon for interrupting, Mr. Storybook.
In the yesterday, said Finn, the man who mixed his utterance with the honeywords of Finn was the first day put naked into the tree of Coill Boirche with nothing to his bare hand but a stick of hazel. On the morning of the second day thereafter...
Now listen for a minute till I tell you something, said Shanahan, did any man here ever hear of the poet Casey?
Who did you say? said Furriskey.
Casey. Jem Casey.
On the morning of the second day thereafter, he was taken and bound and rammed as regards his head into a black hole so that his white body was upside down and upright in Erin for the gazing thereon of man and beast.
Now give us a chance, Mister Storybook, yourself and your black hole, said Shanahan fingering his tie-knot with a long memory-frown across his brow. Come here for a minute. Come here till I tell you about Casey. Do you mean to tell me you never heard of the poet Casey, Mr. Furriskey?
Never heard of him, said Furriskey in a solicitous manner.
I can't say, said Lamont, that I ever heard of him either.
He was a poet of the people, said Shanahan.
I see, said Furriskey.
Now do you understand, said Shanahan. A plain upstanding labouring man, Mr. Furriskey, the same as you or me. A black hat or a bloody ribbon, no by God, not on Jem Casey. A hard-working well-made block of a working man, Mr. Lamont, with the handle of a pick in his hand like the rest of us. Now say there was a crowd of men with a ganger all working there laying a length of gas-pipe on the road. All right. The men pull off their coats and start shovelling and working there for further orders. Here at one end of the hole you have your men crowded up together in a lump and them working away and smoking their butts and talking about the horses and one thing and another. Now do you understand what I'm telling you. Do you follow me?
I see that.
But take a look at the other end of the hole and here is my brave Casey digging away there on his own. Do you understand what I mean, Mr. Furriskey?
Oh I see it all right, said Furriskey.
Right. None of your horses or your bloody blather for him. Not a bit of it. Here is my nabs saying nothing to nobody but working away at a pome in his head with a pick in his hand and the sweat pouring down off his face from the force of his work and his bloody exertions. That's a quare one!
Do you mind that now, said Lamont.
It's a quare one and one that takes a lot of beating. Not a word to nobody, not a look to left or right but the brainbox going there all the time. Just Jem Casey, a poor ignorant labouring man but head and shoulders above the whole bloody lot of them, not a man in the whole country to beat him when it comes to getting together a bloody pome - not a poet in the whole world that could hold a candle to Jem Casey, not a man of them fit to stand beside him. By God I'd back him to win by a canter against the whole bloody lot of them give him his due.
Is that a fact, Mr. Shanahan, said Lamont. It's not every day in the week you come across a man like that.
Do you know what I'm going to tell you, Mr. Lamont, he was a man that could give the lot of them a good start, pickaxe and all. He was a man that could meet them... and meet the best... and beat them at their own game, now I'm telling you.
I suppose he could, said Furriskey.
Now I know what I'm talking about. Give a man his due. If a man's station is high or low he is all the same to the God I know. Take the bloody black hats off the whole bunch of them and where are you?
That's the way to look at it, of course, said Furriskey.
Give them a bloody pick, I mean, Mr. Furriskey, give them the shaft of a shovel into their hand and tell them to dig a hole and have the length of a page of poetry off by heart in their heads before the five o'clock whistle. What will you get? By God you could take off your hat to what you'd get at five o'clock from that crowd and that's a sure sharkey.
You'd be wasting your time if you waited till five o'clock if you ask me, said Furriskey with a nod of complete agreement.
You're right there, said Shanahan, you'd be waiting around for bloody nothing. Oh I know them and I know my hard Casey too. By Janey he'd be up at the whistle with a pome a yard long, a bloody lovely thing that would send my nice men home in a hurry, home with their bloody tails between their legs. Yes, I've seen his pomes and read them and... do you know what I'm going to tell you, I have loved them. I'm not ashamed to sit here and say it, Mr. Furriskey. I've known the man and I've known his pomes and by God I have loved the two of them and loved them well, too. Do you understand what I'm saying, Mr. Lamont? You, Mr. Furriskey?
Oh that's right.
Do you know what it is, I've met the others, the whole lot of them. I've met them all and know them all. I have seen them and I have read their pomes. I have heard them recited by men that know how to use their tongues, men that couldn't be beaten at their own game. I have seen whole books filled up with their stuff, books as thick as that table there and I'm telling you no lie. But by God, at the heel of the hunt, there was only one poet for me.
On the morning of the third day thereafter, said Finn, he was flogged until he bled water.
Only the one, Mr. Shanahan? said Lamont.
Only the one. And that one poet was a man... by the name... of Jem Casey. No "Sir", no "Mister", no nothing. Jem Casey, Poet of the Pick, that's all. A labouring man, Mr. Lamont, but as sweet a singer in his own way as you'll find in the bloody trees there of a spring day, and that's a fact. Jem Casey, an ignorant God-fearing upstanding labouring man, a bloody navvy. Do you know what I'm going to tell you, I don't believe he ever lifted the latch of a school door. Would you believe that now?