An Craoibhin Complains Because He Is a Poet

  It’s my grief that I am not a little white
    duck,
  And I’d swim over the sea to France or
    to Spain;
  I would not stay in Ireland for one week only,
  To be without eating, without drinking, without a full jug.

  Without a full jug, without eating, without
    drinking,
  Without a feast to get, without wine, without
    meat,
  Without high dances, without a big name,
    without music;
  There is hunger on me, and I astray this long
    time.

  It’s my grief that I am not an old crow,
  I would sit for awhile up on the old branch,
  I could satisfy my hunger, and I not as I am
  With a grain of oats or a white potato

  It’s my grief that I am not a red fox,
  Leaping strong and swift on the mountains,
  Eating cocks and hens without pity,
  Taking ducks and geese as a conquerer.

  It’s my grief that I am not a bright salmon,
  Going through the strong full water,
  Catching the mayflies by my craft,
  Swimming at my choice, and swimming with
    the stream

  It’s my grief that I am of the race of the poets;
  It would be better for me to be a high rock,
  Or a stone or a tree or an herb or a flower
  Or anything at all but the thing that I am!