Two poems by Desmond, the Poet Earl Sunday Independent 1963-09-22, p.8 In writing of the poems of Gerald, 3rd Earl of Desmond, in these pages some weeks ago, I mentioned his extraordinary trick of ending a poem with a verse; to the Blessed Virgin, preceded by another to _Diarmuid O Duibne, the Irish hero with whom he identified himself, and a third to his friend, Diarmuid MacCarthy of Muskerry, and mentioned that, after. MacCarthy's death- he continued the practice. Here are two translations of his work which may give readers some idea of what it is like. From the first, which I take, to be an elegy on MacCarthy, I have omitted the verse about the death of Diarmuid O Duibne because that to the Blessed Virgin, which probably referred to the Crucifixion, has been lost, and the poem lacks its proper climax. What the climax would have been like one can see from the second poem, on the death of his wife Rightly or otherwise, I take the poem on MacCarthy's death to be a single sentence with the principal verb held back until the last verse. The Last Raid. (A.D. 1381) Ah, Deel! Though much you may have to steal, I give you my word without lie That all between Feale and Deel— And you, Maigue! Though robbers might pillage and plague, If I had power over all That lies between Feale and Maigue— But Suir, Suir! Whatever may rest secure From the banks of Maigue to Deel And all from Dunquin to the Suir— Munster! All silver and gold That raiding bands might take; Plunder of people and priest, Harbour, river and lake— All, Diarmuid MacCarthy, my friend, The King of Muskerry’s son, Asleep in your cold bed— All went when you were gone! The Widower’s Bed (A.D. 1392) Lover and once-beloved, How rests the sick man’s head? I seek, and seek no other, My own deserted bed. If nothing brings relief From all this world of care What other can I seek Since friends I cannot bear? Stretch a protecting hand, God, on all such as I Who, losing a faithful wife In their cold beds must lie! Lover and well-beloved, Diarmuid MacCarthy is gone; He sleeps in a wooden bed Under a heavy stone. Grania was the beloved Of Diarmuid in his day; Now they sleep well who found Their love that bitter way. Mary, you nursed in bed Your son for Calvary— Beg Him for mercy now On my beloved and me!