Winter 

Chill, chill!
All Moylurg is cold and still,
Where can deer a-hungered go
When the snow lies like a hill?

Cold till doom!
All the world obeys its rule,
Every track become a stream,
Every ford become a pool.

Every pool become a. lake,
Every lake become a sea,
Even horses cannot cross
The ford at Ross so how can we?

All the fish in Ireland stray
When the cold winds smite the bay,
In the towns no voice is heard,
Bell and bird have had their say.

Even the wolves in Cuan Wood
Cannot find a place to rest
When the small wren of Lon Hill
Is not still within her nest.

The small quire of birds has passed
In cold snow and icy blast,
And the blackbird of Cuan Wood
Finds no shelter that holds fast.

Nothing’s easy but our pot,
Our old shack on the hill is not,
For in woodlands crushed with snow
On Ben Bo the trail’s forgot.

The old eagle of Glen Rye,
Even he forgets to fly,
With ice crusted on his beak,
He is now too weak to cry.

Best lie still
In wool and feathers, take your fill,
Ice is thick on every ford
And the word I chose is “chill.”


Source: O'Connor, Frank (tr); Kings, Lords, & Commons: An Anthology
from the Irish; 1962; London; Macmillan & Co; p.26