To Tomas Costello at the Wars This mysterious and lovely poem has a history of misunderstanding behind it. The original editors assumed that Costello was making love to O’Rourke’s wife while her husband was away at the wars. My translation corrected this misunderstanding by making it clear that it was Costello who was at the wars, and that his omnipresence was to be attributed to her imagination rather than to his obtrusiveness, but the theory of a younger scholar than Bergin and Gwynn, Mr. Carney, showed that I had only gone part of the way, for he suggests that there is no O’Rourke, and that O’Rourke’s wife is a bardic conceit for Ireland. There is no doubt in my mind that, whether Mr. Carney is right in every particular or not, this is the only sort of explanation that is possible. What is astonishing is that court poetry of such an elaborate kind should have continued to be written right up to the end of the seventeenth century, and (if Mr. Carney’s attribution to O’Higgins is correct) by one of the great families of court poets. Even stranger to my mind is to find court poetry with all the emotionalism of Baroque, though MacCawell’s poem on the Nativity has something of the same kind. Tomas Costello, known as “Strong Thomas,” has become folklore in the West of Ireland. He is supposed to have had a tragic love affair with a girl called Una MacDermott, and his lament for Una (if it is his), with its agonised and blasphemous imagery and its wonderful melody, makes it the greatest of Irish songs. I am told that Wolf-Ferrari uses it in one of his operas, but I have not checked this statement. It seems to me untranslatable, but perhaps a verse of it translated into plain prose may give some idea of its quality. Young Una, you were a rose in a garden, You were a gold candlestick on the queen’s table, You were talk and music going before me along the road, My ruin of a sad morning that I was not married to you. Popular rhythms had come in at the time. There is nothing popular about the rhythms of this poem. Here’s pretty conduct, Hugh O’Rourke, Great son of Brian, blossoming bough, Noblest son of noblest kin, What do you say of Costello now? If you are still the man I loved Hurry and aid me while you can, Do you not see him at my side, A walking ghost? What ails you, man? Brian’s son, goal of my song, If any thought of losing me Grieve you, strong pillar of my love, Beseech this man to let me be. Yet there’s such darkness in his ways Though he a thousand oaths repeat You must not on your life believe But he will try to have me yet. And if the river of my shame He ford but once, that frOntier crossed, You will not rule the land again, Past choice of mine my heart is lost. Fearsome the forms he courts me in, Myriad and strange the arts he plies, Desire, enchantment of the sight, Never dons twice the same disguise. Sometimes I turn and there he stands, An unfledged stripling, bashful-eyed, And swift as ever hawk can swoop The heart he snatches from my side. Or as if I were a whore he comes, A young blood curious of my fame, With sensual magic and dark rhymes To woo and mock me in my shame. Far to the Ulster wars he flies, Some town he sacks—I am the town— With some light love he charms the night— Beguiling her, he brings me down. Sometimes he comes into my room So much like you in voice and shape I am in his arms before I know Who holds me—how can I escape? But when he comes in his own form, With his own voice, I stand transfixed; My love deserts its wonted place, My mind no longer holds it fixed. Dearest, unless you pity me And keep my wavering fancy set And drive that phantom from my side I swear that he will have me yet. I cannot tear myself in two, My love, your love within my mind Pants like a bird within a cage— My lover, must you be unkind? If ’tis not wasted time to plead Dear son of Jordans, let me be! The women of the world are yours, I am my husband’s, let me be. O sunmist of the summer’s day, You will find I am no easy game, No graceless, love-sick, moony girl, I am not dazzled by a name. Forget the things the neighbours say, I am no harlot as you think; I was a girl when first I loved, I have not strayed, you must not wink. The enchantment of desire is vain, I see through every mask you don. You rascal, pity my good name, You thief of laughter, get you gone! You bandit of the heart, away! I shall not give your lust release, Smother the frontier posts in flame, But let my foolish heart in peace. Bright blossom of the scented wood, Yellow Jordans’ hope and pride, For love, for money, or for rank I cannot leave my husband’s side. And since I never will be yours Take up your father’s trade anew, Go magnify the northern blood— The light of poetry are you. The stirring of the coals of love, The voice with which old griefs are healed, The mast of the rolling sail of war— I may be yours, I shall not yield. And yet, and yet, when all is said, All my scolding seems untrue, My mind to each rebuke replies If love I must I must love you. And now God bless you and begone, The time has come for you to go, For all the grief of parting, I Could never grieve my husband so. Silence, my darling! This is he! Go now, although my heart should crack! Silence! Begone! What shall I do? My love! Oh, God! Do not look back! Tomas O’Higgins, circa 1680 Source: O'Connor, Frank (tr); Kings, Lords, & Commons: An Anthology from the Irish; 1962; London; Macmillan & Co; p.84