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 shoulder-blades ’Twould yield a pleasanter tone, He reaches out for a chord As a dog snaps at a bone. Playing away to himself God only knows what tune, Even the man who made it Cannot recall his own. A wonder the way he works He never keeps tune or time, With skill and care he goes wrong, Mountains of error climb. Give him the simplest catch And at once you’re in at the kill, He mangles it patiently Like an old loud derelict mill. 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); Kings, Lords, & Commons: An Anthology from the Irish; 1962; London; Macmillan & Co; p.73