pound,
The universe round I would rove for his sake.
Bad luck to the robber, be him drunk or sober,
That murdered Nell Flaherty’s beautiful drake.
His neck it was green – then most rare to be seen –
He was fit for a queen of the highest degree;
His body so white that it would you delight,
He was plump, fat and heavy and brisk as a bee;
The dear little fellow, his legs they were yellow,
He’d fly like a swallow and swim like a hake;
But some wicked savage, to grease his white cabbage,
Has murder’d Nell Flaherty’s beautiful drake.
May his pig never grunt, may his dog never hunt,
That a ghost may him haunt in the dark of the night;
May his hen never lay, may his ass never bray,
And his goat fly away like an ould paper kite.
May his cat and her fleas the wretch ever tease,
And the pinching north breeze make him tremble and shake;
May a thirsty pup drink up the last sup
Of the monster that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake.
May his pipe never smoke, may his taypot be broke,
And, to add to the joke, may his kettle not boil;
May he twist in his bed till the moment he’s dead,
May he often be fed on paraffin oil.
May he swell with the gout, may his grinders fall out,
May he roar, bawl and shout with a horrid toothache,
May his temples wear horns, and all his toes corns –
The monster that murder’d Nell Flaherty’s drake.
May his spade never dig, may his sow never pig,
May no one with wit with him ever deal,
May his door have no latch, may his home have no thatch,
May his turkey not hatch, may the rats eat his meal;
May every old fairy from Cork to Dunleary
Dip him till weary in cowld pond or lake,
Where the pike and the eel will lance the heel
Of the monster that murder’d Nell Flaherty’s drake.
May his dog yelp and growl with both hunger and cowld,
May his wife always scowld till his brain goes astray,
May the curse of each hag that e’er carried a bag
Light on the vag, till his beard turns to grey;
May monkeys still bite him, and gorillas affright him,
And everyone slight him, asleep and awake,
May weasels still gnaw him, and jackdaws still claw him –
The monster that murder’d Nell Flaherty’s drake.
The only good news I have to diffuse
Is that long Peter Hughes and blind piper Craik
And big Bob Manson and buck-tooth’d Hanson:
Each man has a grandson of my beautiful drake;
My bird has dozens of nephews and cousins,
And one I must get, or my heart it will break.
To keep my mind aisy – or else I’ll run crazy.
This ends the whole song of Nell Flaherty’s drake.
Here is James Clarence Mangan interpreting, with some help, what the tribal bard had to say about the passing of the Maguire of Fermanagh:
O ’ HUSSEY ’ S ODE TO THE MAGUIRE
Where is my Chief, my master, this bleak night, mavrone!
O, cold, cold, miserably cold is this bleak night for Hugh,
Its showery, arrowy, speary sleet pierceth one through and through,
Pierceth one to the very bone!
Rolls real thunder? Or was that red livid light
Only a meteor? I scarce know; but through the midnight dim
The pitiless ice-wind streams. Except the hate that persecutes him
Nothing hath crueller venomy might.
An awful, a tremendous night is this, meseems!
The flood-gates of the rivers of heaven, I think, have been burst wide –
Down from the overcharged clouds, like unto headlong ocean’s tide,
Descends grey rain in roaring streams.
Though he were even a wolf ranging the round green woods,
Though he were even a pleasant salmon in the unchainable sea,
Though he were a wild mountain eagle, he could scarce bear, he,
This sharp, sore sleet, these howling floods.
O, mournful is my soul this night for Hugh Maguire!
Darkly, as in a dream, he strays! Before him and behind
Triumphs the tyrannous anger of the wounding wind,
The wounding wind, that burns as fire!
It is my bitter grief – it cuts me to the heart –
That in the county of Clan Darry this should be his fate!
O, woe is me, where is
The universe round I would rove for his sake.
Bad luck to the robber, be him drunk or sober,
That murdered Nell Flaherty’s beautiful drake.
His neck it was green – then most rare to be seen –
He was fit for a queen of the highest degree;
His body so white that it would you delight,
He was plump, fat and heavy and brisk as a bee;
The dear little fellow, his legs they were yellow,
He’d fly like a swallow and swim like a hake;
But some wicked savage, to grease his white cabbage,
Has murder’d Nell Flaherty’s beautiful drake.
May his pig never grunt, may his dog never hunt,
That a ghost may him haunt in the dark of the night;
May his hen never lay, may his ass never bray,
And his goat fly away like an ould paper kite.
May his cat and her fleas the wretch ever tease,
And the pinching north breeze make him tremble and shake;
May a thirsty pup drink up the last sup
Of the monster that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake.
May his pipe never smoke, may his taypot be broke,
And, to add to the joke, may his kettle not boil;
May he twist in his bed till the moment he’s dead,
May he often be fed on paraffin oil.
May he swell with the gout, may his grinders fall out,
May he roar, bawl and shout with a horrid toothache,
May his temples wear horns, and all his toes corns –
The monster that murder’d Nell Flaherty’s drake.
May his spade never dig, may his sow never pig,
May no one with wit with him ever deal,
May his door have no latch, may his home have no thatch,
May his turkey not hatch, may the rats eat his meal;
May every old fairy from Cork to Dunleary
Dip him till weary in cowld pond or lake,
Where the pike and the eel will lance the heel
Of the monster that murder’d Nell Flaherty’s drake.
May his dog yelp and growl with both hunger and cowld,
May his wife always scowld till his brain goes astray,
May the curse of each hag that e’er carried a bag
Light on the vag, till his beard turns to grey;
May monkeys still bite him, and gorillas affright him,
And everyone slight him, asleep and awake,
May weasels still gnaw him, and jackdaws still claw him –
The monster that murder’d Nell Flaherty’s drake.
The only good news I have to diffuse
Is that long Peter Hughes and blind piper Craik
And big Bob Manson and buck-tooth’d Hanson:
Each man has a grandson of my beautiful drake;
My bird has dozens of nephews and cousins,
And one I must get, or my heart it will break.
To keep my mind aisy – or else I’ll run crazy.
This ends the whole song of Nell Flaherty’s drake.
Here is James Clarence Mangan interpreting, with some help, what the tribal bard had to say about the passing of the Maguire of Fermanagh:
O ’ HUSSEY ’ S ODE TO THE MAGUIRE
Where is my Chief, my master, this bleak night, mavrone!
O, cold, cold, miserably cold is this bleak night for Hugh,
Its showery, arrowy, speary sleet pierceth one through and through,
Pierceth one to the very bone!
Rolls real thunder? Or was that red livid light
Only a meteor? I scarce know; but through the midnight dim
The pitiless ice-wind streams. Except the hate that persecutes him
Nothing hath crueller venomy might.
An awful, a tremendous night is this, meseems!
The flood-gates of the rivers of heaven, I think, have been burst wide –
Down from the overcharged clouds, like unto headlong ocean’s tide,
Descends grey rain in roaring streams.
Though he were even a wolf ranging the round green woods,
Though he were even a pleasant salmon in the unchainable sea,
Though he were a wild mountain eagle, he could scarce bear, he,
This sharp, sore sleet, these howling floods.
O, mournful is my soul this night for Hugh Maguire!
Darkly, as in a dream, he strays! Before him and behind
Triumphs the tyrannous anger of the wounding wind,
The wounding wind, that burns as fire!
It is my bitter grief – it cuts me to the heart –
That in the county of Clan Darry this should be his fate!
O, woe is me, where is
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