TRANSCRIPTIONS-EIRE-L Archives

From: "Jean R." <>
Subject: Hugh MacGOWRAN (c. 1700) "O'ROURK'S FROLIC" - trans. J. SWIFT 1720
Date: Fri, 31 Dec 2004 13:56:10 -0800

THE DESCRIPTION OF AN IRISH FEAST, or
O'ROURK' S FROLIC

O'Rourk's noble fare
Will ne'er be forgot,
By those who were there
Or those who were not.

His revels to keep,
We sup and we dine
On seven score sheep,
Fat bullocks and swine.

Usquebaugh to our feast
In pails was brought up,
A hundred at least,
And a madder our cup.

O there is the sport!
We rise with the light
In disorderly sort,
From snoring all night.

O how was I trick'd!
My pipe it was broke,
My pocket was pick'd
I lost my new cloak.

I'm rifled, quoth Nell.
Of mantle and kercher:
Why then fare them well,
The de'el take the searcher.

Come harper, strike up;
But, first, by your favor,
Boy, give us a cup:
Ah! this hath some savour.

O'Rourk's jolly boys
Ne'er dreamt of the matter,
'Till rous'd by the noise,
And musical clatter.

They bounce from their nest,
No longer will tarry,
They rise ready dress'd
Without one Ave-Mary.

They dance in a round,
Cutting capers and ramping;
A mercy on the ground
Did not burst with their stamping.

The floor is all wet
With leaps and with jumps,
While the water and sweat
Splish-splash in their pumps.

Bless you late and early,
Laughlin O'Enagin!
By my hand, you dance rarely,
Margery Grinagin.

Bring straw for our bed,
Shake it down to the feet,
Then over us spread
The winnowing sheet.

To show I don't flinch,
Fill the bowl up again;
Then give us a pinch
Of your sneezing, a Yean.

Good Lord! what a sight,
After all their good cheer,
For people to fight
In the midst of their beer!

They rise from their feast,
And hot are their brains,
A cubit at least
The length of their skeans.

What stabs and what cuts,
What clattering of sticks;
What strokes on the guts,
What bastings and kicks!

With cudgels of oak,
Well harden'd in flame,
A hundred heads broke,
A hundred struck lame.

You churl, I'll maintain
My father built Lusk,
The castle of Slane,
And Carrick Drumrusk:

The Earl of Kildare,
And Moynalta his brother,
As great as they are,
I was nursed by their mother.

Ask that of old madam;
She'll tell you who's who,
As far up as Adam,
She knows it is true.

Come down with that beam,
If cudgels are scarce,
A blow on the weam,
Or a kick on the arse.

-- Hugh MAC GOWRAN (c. 1700) translated by Jonathan SWIFT 1720 almost literally from the original Irish.
Usquebaugh (whisky)
madder (wooden vessel)
skeans (daggers or short swords)
"I was nursed by their mother," i.e. same foster mother.

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• Hugh MacGOWRAN (c. 1700) "O'ROURK'S FROLIC" - trans. J. SWIFT 1720 by "Jean R." <>