Irish Love poetry
Oct. 24th, 2003 02:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
valarltd A True Irish Love Poem An absolute riot. I wish someone loved me that much.
The Love Song of an Irish warrior
(re-translated form 8th century Irish by an anonymous scholar)
Written by Arthur McLean (Master Hector of the Black Height)
Please attribute to him. Thank you.
How do I love thee, barefoot maid of distant lands?
I love you more than Celtic knotwork.
As practiced by Celtic Boy Scouts.
Whatever they are.
I love you more than peat.
Especially the really squishy-boggy stuff that smells
rotten on hot summer
days when the fields are in direct sunlight and flies
buzz around,
drawn by the stink that rises in the mist.
From the peat.
That I love you more than.
The peat, I mean, not the flies.
Though I love you more than the flies too.
I love you more than twelve-year-old whisky.
Especially blended whiskey.
Definitely more than blended whiskey.
Single malts are another topic, which I do not choose
to discuss at this time.
I love you more than poteen.
Unless you can make poteen.
At which point I see the poteen as an extension of
your love and love you
just as much as poteen.
Especially the hundred-year-old poteen my
great-grandfather put down.
Which is high praise indeed.
I love you more than Vikings, but we all know that
isn't saying much.
Still, I do love you more than Vikings.
I love most things more than Vikings.
In fact, I think I love EVERYTHING more than Vikings.
Even festering sword cuts on my own limbs.
So let's not emphasize that point.
I love you more than the heads of my dead enemies
hanging in my hall.
Even the one with no teeth that looks really great
when the first light
of dawn streams in the gable and makes it look like
its eyes are on fire.
Begorrah, that head looks great.
I guess I love you more than that.
I definitely love you more than the other heads
though.
Especially the ones where the flesh hasn't dried and
is all green and
moldy and smells really nasty.
Though they too will dry and become more loveable with
age.
Which is a fine thing to say.
I love you more than cattle.
Lots of cattle.
Big hairy cattle.
Six or seven cattle, even on a cold night.
Even Bossy with the big, soulful eyes.
Six or seven cattle's a lot, y'know.
It's not eight, true.
But it's not five, and that's saying something.
I love you more than sheep.
I obviously am not a Scotsman.
Did I mention I love you more than six or seven
cattle?
Which indeed is more than five?
Cattle, I mean.
Not sheep.
Nor Scotsmen.
I love you more than the gurgling wheeze an
out-of-tune bagpipe makes
before the piper begins to play.
As that wheeze always forewarns beauty, there can be
no higher praise.
I love you more than a gurgling, wheezing bagpipe.
Even up close.
I love you more than Irish wolfhounds.
I love you more than the dog of kings and legends.
I love you more than the graceful neck and smooth
limbs of a wolfhound.
You are, er, house-trained, aren't you?
If so, I definitely love you more than most of the
wolfhounds I've met.
I love you more than the jangling of harp strings in
the wind.
I love you more than the whisper of rain on the
standing stones.
I love you more than the green of the fields reflected
in the green of
the sea,
I love you more than a wolfhound, dog of kings and
legends, pooping on
the grass beside a standing stone, reflected in the
sea.
I love you more than seagulls swooping overhead,
I love you more than seagulls bobbing in the waves.
I love you more than seagulls on a spit.
For eating, I mean.
I see no great artistic, poetic appeal in a seagull on
a spit like in a
harbour, because the seagulls in the harbour tend to
eat a lot of garbage
and look ugly.
No, I love you more than seagulls on a spit for
eating.
And seagulls are good eating.
A bit fishy, but meat is meat and they don't cost you
anything.
I love you more than garish tartan cloth that makes
the eyes burn with
seeing it.
For a good Celt, that's quite an admission.
I love you almost as much as torcs and arm-rings.
Nearly as much as swords of fine iron and spears with
straight shafts.
Hey, don't push your luck.
But I love you more than shields, which wear out.
Definitely more than shields.
I'm just talking about the wood part, not the iron
boss that can be
removed and put on another shield.
Which I'll love you more than.
The shield, I mean.
That's how much I love you.
Begorrah.
The Love Song of an Irish warrior
(re-translated form 8th century Irish by an anonymous scholar)
Written by Arthur McLean (Master Hector of the Black Height)
Please attribute to him. Thank you.
How do I love thee, barefoot maid of distant lands?
I love you more than Celtic knotwork.
As practiced by Celtic Boy Scouts.
Whatever they are.
I love you more than peat.
Especially the really squishy-boggy stuff that smells
rotten on hot summer
days when the fields are in direct sunlight and flies
buzz around,
drawn by the stink that rises in the mist.
From the peat.
That I love you more than.
The peat, I mean, not the flies.
Though I love you more than the flies too.
I love you more than twelve-year-old whisky.
Especially blended whiskey.
Definitely more than blended whiskey.
Single malts are another topic, which I do not choose
to discuss at this time.
I love you more than poteen.
Unless you can make poteen.
At which point I see the poteen as an extension of
your love and love you
just as much as poteen.
Especially the hundred-year-old poteen my
great-grandfather put down.
Which is high praise indeed.
I love you more than Vikings, but we all know that
isn't saying much.
Still, I do love you more than Vikings.
I love most things more than Vikings.
In fact, I think I love EVERYTHING more than Vikings.
Even festering sword cuts on my own limbs.
So let's not emphasize that point.
I love you more than the heads of my dead enemies
hanging in my hall.
Even the one with no teeth that looks really great
when the first light
of dawn streams in the gable and makes it look like
its eyes are on fire.
Begorrah, that head looks great.
I guess I love you more than that.
I definitely love you more than the other heads
though.
Especially the ones where the flesh hasn't dried and
is all green and
moldy and smells really nasty.
Though they too will dry and become more loveable with
age.
Which is a fine thing to say.
I love you more than cattle.
Lots of cattle.
Big hairy cattle.
Six or seven cattle, even on a cold night.
Even Bossy with the big, soulful eyes.
Six or seven cattle's a lot, y'know.
It's not eight, true.
But it's not five, and that's saying something.
I love you more than sheep.
I obviously am not a Scotsman.
Did I mention I love you more than six or seven
cattle?
Which indeed is more than five?
Cattle, I mean.
Not sheep.
Nor Scotsmen.
I love you more than the gurgling wheeze an
out-of-tune bagpipe makes
before the piper begins to play.
As that wheeze always forewarns beauty, there can be
no higher praise.
I love you more than a gurgling, wheezing bagpipe.
Even up close.
I love you more than Irish wolfhounds.
I love you more than the dog of kings and legends.
I love you more than the graceful neck and smooth
limbs of a wolfhound.
You are, er, house-trained, aren't you?
If so, I definitely love you more than most of the
wolfhounds I've met.
I love you more than the jangling of harp strings in
the wind.
I love you more than the whisper of rain on the
standing stones.
I love you more than the green of the fields reflected
in the green of
the sea,
I love you more than a wolfhound, dog of kings and
legends, pooping on
the grass beside a standing stone, reflected in the
sea.
I love you more than seagulls swooping overhead,
I love you more than seagulls bobbing in the waves.
I love you more than seagulls on a spit.
For eating, I mean.
I see no great artistic, poetic appeal in a seagull on
a spit like in a
harbour, because the seagulls in the harbour tend to
eat a lot of garbage
and look ugly.
No, I love you more than seagulls on a spit for
eating.
And seagulls are good eating.
A bit fishy, but meat is meat and they don't cost you
anything.
I love you more than garish tartan cloth that makes
the eyes burn with
seeing it.
For a good Celt, that's quite an admission.
I love you almost as much as torcs and arm-rings.
Nearly as much as swords of fine iron and spears with
straight shafts.
Hey, don't push your luck.
But I love you more than shields, which wear out.
Definitely more than shields.
I'm just talking about the wood part, not the iron
boss that can be
removed and put on another shield.
Which I'll love you more than.
The shield, I mean.
That's how much I love you.
Begorrah.
