28Hartnett, Michael. Translations. Ed. Peter Fallon. Oldcastle, County Meath, Ireland: Gallery, 2003. 52-55. Originally published in 1969, Dublin: New Writers' Press.
From the Old Irish (ninth century, anonymous)
The woman of Beare sang this when old:
As to the sea laps low tide
to me falls fading of age;
grief for myself at fading,
greed in the teeth of my days.
I am Buí, the hag of Beare,
I wore an eternal gown;
but I am naked today
of even a cast·off shroud.
Money was all you loved,
and not people.
but we, while we were alive,
our love was for the people —
for we loved the peopled plains
we rode, and we loved our hosts;
hospitable, good, they made
of no giving a long boast.
Today you claim all, yet you
grant none nothing: if you give
you shame the given with great
boasting of a little gift.
Now my body, bitter, finds
the corridors of final
recognition, the gaze of
God in his own possession.
Now my hands, wrinkled to long
bones, hang down dead, hands that locked
kings of this land in loving,
in the old days, my lost days.
O hands, wrinkled to long bones
even at my odd hours of lust
I must tell young men begone
should they come. I have no love.
The bodies of young women
bound as rabbits in springtime.
I only regret. I am
a barren unloved woman —
for my tongue hides no honey
and I look to no wedlock;
white what is left of my hair
hidden under a hag's cloak.
Not the old I envy:
they die; but youth
and monuments, both assailed
as I am, and they still hold.
Winter makes war with the waves;
today no king will come here,
nor the lowest road-walker.
I expect no one today.
I know what they are doing,
liquid horses of the sea;
spaced far in their maned groups,
they gallop away from me.
By loving
I wasted my self to age,
but beauty leaves me alone:
I am told, and no lust stays.
When the sun
beats a haze of hotness from
the sea, so yet I must go
clothed. I am spent, and old.
And yet to waste by loving
is no waste: for I am glad
I was made old by pleasure,
I am glad my flesh was glad.
Green to grass comes back each spring;
I am eternally old.
Each acorn gives way to earth,
bright tables fall to bare boards.
Past, in my days of firm breasts,
wine was my drink and sweet words
my food, tall men my lovers;
now curds, sour as my own milk.
Beneath my cloak my skin hides,
grained with age and unlovely;
a white hair covers my skin
like fungus on a dead tree.
Robbed of me my blue right eye,
lent for land I own forever;
and robbed of me my left eye
secures it, mine forever.
The three floods
in which I would dream to drown:
a flood of loves, of horses
and of gentle slim grey hounds.
O birth-wave,
death-wave, your bore, you broke me;
you, last, I will know your face
when you must come to take me.
O death-wave,
though great, my friends in darkness
are — yet come and make your use
of me. I never refuse.
Well for the islands to which
again the flood-waves come: now
I, alone on my ebbed beach,
I know no face nor no house.
'The Hag of Beare' by Michael Hartnett from Translations (2003) reproduced by kind permission of the author's estate and The Gallery Press. www.gallerypress.com