An Craoibhin Complains Because He Is a Poet
It’s my grief that I am not a little white
duck,
And I’d swim over the sea to France or
to Spain;
I would not stay in Ireland for one week only,
To be without eating, without drinking, without a full jug.
Without a full jug, without eating, without
drinking,
Without a feast to get, without wine, without
meat,
Without high dances, without a big name,
without music;
There is hunger on me, and I astray this long
time.
It’s my grief that I am not an old crow,
I would sit for awhile up on the old branch,
I could satisfy my hunger, and I not as I am
With a grain of oats or a white potato
It’s my grief that I am not a red fox,
Leaping strong and swift on the mountains,
Eating cocks and hens without pity,
Taking ducks and geese as a conquerer.
It’s my grief that I am not a bright salmon,
Going through the strong full water,
Catching the mayflies by my craft,
Swimming at my choice, and swimming with
the stream
It’s my grief that I am of the race of the poets;
It would be better for me to be a high rock,
Or a stone or a tree or an herb or a flower
Or anything at all but the thing that I am!