The Harper

Master of discords, John
  Makes harmony seem wrong,
His treble sings to his bass
  Like a sow consoling her young.

If he played with his shoulderblades
  He'd make a pleasanter tone,
His hand pluck at the strings
  As a dog snaps at a bone.

Composers know their work
  No more when he plies his sledge;
False note after false note
  Sets all our teeth on edge.

A wonder the way he works,
  He cannot keep tune or time,
With skill and care he goes wrong
  Mountains of error climb.

Give him the simplest catch
  And straight you’re in at its death;
Like an ancient mill he grinds out
  Breaches of honour and faith.

Copper scratched with a knife,
  Brass cut with a rasp,
His nails scrape at the strings
  Till all shudder and gasp.

God help you gentle harp
  Pounded and plagued by his fist,
There isn’t a chord in your breast
  Without a sprain or twist.



Source: O'Connor, Frank (tr); Lords, & Commons:
Translations from the Irish; 1938; Dublin;
The Cuala Press; p. 16