At Swim-Two-Birds (11 page)

I'd believe it of Casey, said Furriskey, and

I'd believe plenty more of the same man, said Lamont. You haven't any of his pomes on you, have you, Mr. Shanahan?

Now take that stuff your man was giving us a while ago, said Shanahan without heed, about the green hills and the bloody swords and the bird giving out the pay from the top of the tree. Now that's good stuff, it's bloody nice. Do you know what it is, I liked it and liked it well. I enjoyed that certainly.

It wasn't bad at all, said Furriskey, I have heard worse, by God, often. It was all right now.

Do you see what I'm getting at, do you understand me, said Shanahan. It's good, very good. But by Christopher it's not every man could see it, I'm bloody sure of that, one in a thousand.

Oh that's right too, said Lamont.

You can't beat it, of course, said Shanahan with a reddening of the features, the real old stuff of the native land, you know, stuff that brought scholars to our shore when your men on the other side were on the flat of their bellies before the calf of gold with a sheepskin around their man. It's the stuff that put our country where she stands to-day, Mr. Furriskey, and I'd have my tongue out of my head by the bloody roots before I'd be heard saying a word against it. But the man in the street, where does he come in? By God he doesn't come in at all as far as I can see.

What do my brave men in the black hats care whether he's in or out, asked Furriskey. What do they care? It's a short jump for the man in the street, I'm thinking, if he's waiting for that crowd to do anything for him. They're a nice crowd, now, I'm telling you.

Oh that's the truth, said Lamont.

Another thing, said Shanahan, you can get too much of that stuff. Feed yourself up with that tack once and you won't want more for a long time.

There's no doubt about it, said Furriskey.

Try it once, said Shanahan, and you won't want it a second time.

Do you know what it is, said Lamont, there are people who read that... and keep reading it... and read damn the bloody thing else. Now that's a mistake.

A big mistake, said Furriskey.

But there's one man, said Shanahan, there's one man that can write pomes that you can read all day and all night and keep reading them to your heart's content, stuff you'd never tire of. Pomes written by a man that is one of ourselves and written down for ourselves to read. The name of that man...

Now that's what you want, said Furriskey.

The name of that man, said Shanahan, is a name that could be christianed on you or me, a name that won't shame us. And that name, said Shanahan, is Jem Casey.

And a very good man, said Lamont.

Jem Casey, said Furriskey.

Do you understand what I mean, said Shanahan.

You haven't any of his pomes on you, have you, said Lamont. If there's one thing I'd like...

I haven't one
on
me if that's what you mean, Mr. Lamont, said Shanahan, but I could give one out as quick as I'd say my prayers. By God it's not for nothing that I call myself a pal of Jem Casey.

I'm glad to hear it, said Lamont.

Stand up there and recite it man, said Furriskey, don't keep us waiting. What's the name of it now?

The name or title of the pome I am about to recite, gentlemen, said Shanahan with leisure priest-like in character, is a pome by the name of the "Workman's Friend". By God you can't beat it. I've heard it praised by the highest. It's a pome about a thing that's known to all of us. It's about a drink of porter.

Porter!

Porter.

Up on your legs man, said Furriskey. Mr. Lamont and myself are waiting and listening. Up you get now.

Come on, off you go, said Lamont.

Now listen, said Shanahan clearing the way with small coughs. Listen now.

He arose holding out his hand and bending his knee beneath him on the chair.

    When things go wrong and will not come right,
    Though you do the best you can,
    When life looks black as the hour of night -
    A PINT OF PLAIN IS YOUR ONLY MAN.

By God there's a lilt in that, said Lamont.

Very good indeed, said Furriskey. Very nice.

I'm telling you it's the business, said Shanahan. Listen now.

    When money's tight and is hard to get
    And your horse has also ran,
    When all you have is a heap of debt -
    A PINT OF PLAIN IS YOUR ONLY MAN.

    When health is bad and your heart feels strange,
    And your face is pale and wan,
    When doctors say that you need a change,
    A PINT OF PLAIN IS YOUR ONLY MAN.

There are things in that pome that make for what you call
permanence
. Do you know what I mean, Mr. Furriskey?

There's no doubt about it, it's a grand thing, said Furriskey. Come on, Mr. Shanahan, give us another verse. Don't tell me that is the end of it.

Can't you listen? said Shanahan.

    When food is scarce and your larder bare
    And no rashers grease your pan,
    When hunger grows as your meals are rare -
    A PINT OF PLAIN IS YOUR ONLY MAN.

What do you think of that now?

It's a pome that'll live, called Lamont, a pome that'll be heard and clapped when plenty more...

But wait till you hear the last verse, man, the last polish-off, said Shanahan. He frowned and waved his hand.

Oh it's good, it's good, said Furriskey.

    In time of trouble and lousy strife,
    You have still got a darlint plan,
    You still can turn to a brighter life -
    A PINT OF PLAIN IS YOUR ONLY MAN!

Did you ever hear anything like it in your life, said Furriskey. A pint of plain, by God, what! Oh I'm telling you, Casey was a man in twenty thousand, there's no doubt about that. He knew what he was at, too true he did. If he knew nothing else, he knew how to write a pome. A pint of plain is your only man.

Didn't I tell you he was good? said Shanahan. Oh by Gorrah you can't cod me.

There's one thing in that pome,
permanence
, if you know what I mean. That pome, I mean to say, is a pome that'll be heard wherever the Irish race is wont to gather, it'll live as long as there's a hard root of an Irishman left by the Almighty on this planet, mark my words. What do you think, Mr. Shanahan?

It'll live, Mr. Lamont, it'll live.

I'm bloody sure it will, said Lamont.

A pint of plain, by God, eh? said Furriskey.

Tell us, my Old Timer, said Lamont benignly, what do you think of it? Give the company the benefit of your scholarly pertinacious fastidious opinion, Sir Storybook. Eh, Mr. Shanahan?

Conspirators' eyes were winked smartly in the dancing firelight. Furriskey rapped Finn about the knees.

Wake up!

And Sweeny continued, said corn-yellow Finn, at the recital of these staves.

    If I were to search alone
    the hills of the brown world,
    better would I like my sole hut
    in Glen Bolcain.

    Good its water greenish-green
    good its clean strong wind,
    good its cress-green cresses,
    best its branching brooklime.

Quick march again, said Lamont. It'll be a good man that'll put a stop to that man's tongue. More of your fancy kiss-my-hand, by God.

Let him talk, said Furriskey, it'll do him good. It has to come out somewhere.

I'm a man, said Shanahan in a sententious fashion, that could always listen to what my fellowman has to say. I'm telling you now, it's a wise man that listens and says nothing.

Certainly said Lamont. A wise old owl once lived in a wood, the more he heard the less he said, the less he said the more he heard, let's emulate that wise old bird.

There's a lot in that, said Furriskey. A little less of the talk and we were right.

Finn continued with a patient weariness, speaking slowly to the fire and to the six suppliant shoes that were in devotion around it, the voice of the old man from the dim bed.

    Good its sturdy ivies,
    good its bright neat sallow,
    good its yewy yew-yews,
    best its sweet-noise birch.

    A haughty ivy
    growing through a twisted tree,
    myself on its true summit,
    I would lothe leave it.

    I flee before skylarks,
    it is the tense stern-race,
    I overleap the clumps
    on the high hill-peaks.

    When it rises in front of me
    the proud turtle-dove,
    I overtake it swiftly
    since my plumage grew.

    The stupid unwitting woodcock
    when it rises up before me,
    methinks it red-hostile,
    and the blackbird that cries havoc.

    Small foxes yelping
    to me and from me,
    the wolves tear them -
    I flee their cries.

    They journeyed in their chase of me
    in their swift courses
    so that I flew away from them
    to the tops of mountains.

    On every pool there will rain
    a starry frost;
    I am wretched and wandering
    under it on the peak.

    The herons are calling
    in cold Glen Eila
    swift-flying flocks are flying,
    coming and going.

    I do not relish
    the mad clack of humans
    sweeter warble of the bird
    in the place he is.

    I like not the trumpeting
    heard at morn;
    sweeter hearing is the squeal
    of badgers in Benna Broc.

    I do not like it
    the loud bugling;
    finer is the stagbelling stag
    of antler-points twice twenty.

    There are makings for plough-teams
    from glen to glen;
    each resting-stag at rest
    on the summit of the peaks.

Excuse me for a second, interposed Shanahan in an urgent manner, I've got a verse in my head. Wait now.

What!

Listen, man. Listen to this before it's lost. When stags appear on the mountain high, with flanks the colour of bran, when a badger bold can say good-bye, A PINT OF PLAIN IS YOUR ONLY MAN!

Well by God Shanahan, I never thought you had it in you, said Furriskey, turning his wide-eyed smile to the smile of Lamont, I never thought you had it in you. Take a look at the bloody poet, Mr. Lamont. What?

The hard Shanahan by God, said Lamont. The hard man. That's a good one all right. Put it there, Mr. Shanahan.

Hands were extended till they met, the generous grip of friendship in front of the fire.

All right, said Shanahan laughing in the manner of a proud peacock, don't shake the handle off me altogether. Gentlemen, you flatter me. Order ten pints a man till we celebrate.

My hard bloody Shanahan, said Lamont.

That'll do you now the pair of ye, said Shanahan. Silence in the court now.

The droning from the bed restarted where it stopped.

    The stag of steep Slieve Eibhlinne,
    the stag of sharp Slieve Fuaid,
    the stag of Eala, the stag of Orrery,
    the mad stag of Loch Lein.

    Stag of Shevna, stag of Larne,
    the stag of Leena of the panoplies
    stag of Cualna, stag of Conachail,
    the stag of two-peaked Bairenn.

    Oh mother of this herd,
    thy coat has greyed,
    no stag is following after thee
    without twice twenty points.

    Greater-than-the-material-for-a-little-cloak,
    thy head has greyed;
    if I were on each little point
    littler points would there be on every pointed point.

    The stag that marches trumpeting
    across the glen to me,
    pleasant the place for seats
    on his antler top.

After that song, the long one, Sweeny came from Fiodh Gaibhle to Benn Boghaine, from there to Benn Faibhne and thence to Rath Murbuilg, attaining no refuge from the attention of the hag till he came to Dun Sobhairce in Ulster. Here he went before the hag and threw a leap from the precise summit of the dun. She followed him in swift course and dropped on the precipice of Dun Sobhairce till fine-pulp and small-bits were made of her, falling lastly into the sea, so that it was thus that she found death in her chase of Sweeny.

He then travelled and tarried in many places for a month and a fortnight, on smooth clean delightful hills and on delicate chill-breezed peaks for a fortnight and a month, making his abode in the hiding of tree-clumps. And in leaving Carrick Alaisdar, he delayed there till he had fashioned these staves as a farewell address, a valediction on the subject of his manifold sorrow.

    Cheerless is existence
    without a downy bed,
    abode of the shrivelling frost,
    gusts of the snowy wind.

    Chill icy wind,
    shadow of a feeble sun
    the shelter of a sole tree
    on a mountain-plain.

    The bell-belling of the stag
    through the woodland,
    the climb to the deer-pass,
    the voice of white seas.

    Forgive me Oh Great Lord,
    mortal is this great sorrow,
    worse than the black grief -
    Sweeny the thin-groined.

    Carraig Alasdair
    resort of sea-gulls,
    sad Oh Creator,
    chilly for its guests.

    Sad our meeting
    two hard-shanked cranes -
    myself hard and ragged
    she hard-beaked.

Thereafter Sweeny departed and fared till he had crossed the encompassing gullet of the storm-wracked sea till he reached the kingdom of the Britons and fell in with another of a like frenzy, a madman of Briton.

If you are a madman, said Sweeny, tell me your family name.

Fer Caille is my name, he answered.

And the pair of them made a peace and a compact together, talking with each other in a lay of generous staves.

Oh Sweeny, said Fer Caille, let the each watch the other since we have love and trust in each; that is, he who shall first hear the cry of a heron from the blue-watered green-watered water, or the clear call of a cormorant, or the leap of a woodcock from a tree, the note or the sound of a waking plover, or the crack-crackle of withered branches, or he who shall first see the shadow of a bird in the air above the wood, let him call warning and tell the other, so that the two of us can fly away quickly.

At the butt-end of a year's wandering in the company of each other, the madman of Briton had a message for Sweeny's ear.

It is true that we must part to-day, he said, for the end of my life has come and I must go to where I am to die.