The Old Woman of Beare The Old Woman of Beare (in County Cork) is one of the standard revenant figures of early Irish literature, a goddess who, having survived for long ages, finds herself a nun in a Christian community. “Femuin” and “Bregon” are both in the vicinity of Cashel, County Tipperary. I, the old woman of Beare Once a shining shift would wear, Now and since my beauty’s fall I have scarce a shift at all. Plump no more I sigh for these Bones bare beyond belief; Ebbtide is all my grief, I am ebbing like the seas. It is pay And not men ye love today, But when we were young, ah, then We gave all our hearts to men. Men most dear, Horseman, huntsman, charioteer; We gave them love with all our will But the measure did not fill. Though today they ask so fine, And small good they get of it; They are worn-out in their prime By the little that they get. And long since the foaming steed And the chariot with its speed And the charioteer went by— God be with them all say I. Luck has left me, I go late To the dark house where they wait; When the Son of God thinks fit Let Him call me home to it. For my hands as you may see Are but bony wasted things, Hands that once would grasp the hand Clasp the royal neck of kings. Oh, my hands as may be seen Are so scraggy and so thin That a boy might start in dread Feeling them about his head. Girls are gay When the year draws on to May, But for me, so poor am I, Sun will scarcely light the day. Not mine now sweet words to say, Not for me the wether dies, While my hair is short and grey This poor veil is no surprise. Though I care Nothing for what binds my hair, I had headgear bright enough When the kings for love went bare. ’Tis not age that makes my pain But the eye that sees so plain How when all it loves decays Femuin’s ways are gold again. Femuin, Bregon, sacring stone, Sacring stone and Ronan’s throne Storms have sacked so long that now Tomb and sacring stone are one. Winter overwhelms the land, The waves are noisy on the strand, So I may not h0pe today Prince or slave will come my way. Where are they? Ah, well I know Old and toiling bones that row Almas’s flood, or by its deep Sleep in cold that slept not so. Welladay! That I am no girl today; All my beauty to my cost, Lost, with all my will to play. And O God! Once again for ill or good Spring will come, and I shall see Everything but me renewed. Summer sun and autumn sun, These I knew, and they are gone, And the winter-time of men Comes, and they come not again. Madly did I spend my prime, What is there to cause me rage? If in prayer I had passed the time, Should I be less grieved at age? And “Amen!” I cry and “Woe “That the' boughs are shaken bare! “And that candlelight and feast “Leave me to the dark and prayer!” I who had my day with kings And drank deep of mead and wine Drink wheywater with old hags Sitting in their rags and pine. “That my cups be cups of whey! “That Thy will be done!” I pray, But the prayer, 0 Living God, Wakes a madness in my blood. And I cry “Your locks are grey” To the mantle that I stroke; Then I grieve and murmur “Nay, “I am grey and not my cloak.” And of eyes that loved the sun Age, my grief, has taken one, And the other too will. take Soon for good prOportion’s sake. Floodtide! Flood or ebb upon the strand! What the floodtide brings to you Ebbtide carries from my hand. Floodtide! Ebbtide with the hurrying fall! All have reached me, ebb and flow, Ay, and now I know them all. Floodtide! Cannot reach me where I call; None in darkness seeks my side, Cold the hand that lies on all. Happy island of the main To you the tide will come again, But to me it comes no more Over the blank, deserted shore. Seeing it, I can scarcely say “This was such a place,” today What was water far and wide Changes with the ebbing tide. Source: O'Connor, Frank (tr); Kings, Lords, & Commons: An Anthology from the Irish; 1962; London; Macmillan & Co; pp.34-38