Seaṫrún Céitinn cct. (circ. 1642)

A ḃean lán de stuaim,
Congḃuiġ uaim do láṁ:
Ní fear gníoṁa sinn,
Gé taoi tinn dár ngráḋ.

Féaċ ar liaṫ dem’ ḟolt!
Féaċ mo ċorp gan lúṫ!
Féaċ ar ṫraoċ dem’ ḟuil!
Créad re a ḃfuil do ṫnúṫ?

Ná síl mé go saoḃ,
A-rís ná claon ceann,
Bíoḋ ar ngráḋ gan ġníoṁ,
Go bráṫ, a ṡíoḋ ṡeang.

Druid do ḃéal óm’ ḃéal,
Doilġe an sgéal do ċor.
Ná bíom cneas re cneas,
Tig ó’n teas an tol.

Do ċúl craoḃaċ cas,
Do rosg glas mar ḋrúċt,
Do ċíoċ ċruinn ġeal ḃláiṫ,
Ṫarraineas mian súl.

Gaċ gníoṁ aċt gníoṁ cuirp,
Is luiġe id’ ċuilt ṡuain,
Do-ġéanainn dod’ ġráḋ,
A ḃean lán de stuaim!

By Geoffrey Keating (circ. 1642)

O woman full of wile,
Keep from me thy hand:
I am not a man of the flesh,
Tho’ thou be sick for my love.

See how my hair is grey!
See how my body is powerless!
See how my blood hath ebbed!
For what is thy desire?

Do not think me besotted:
Bend not again thy head,
Let our love be without act
Forever, O slender witch.

Take thy mouth from my mouth,
Graver the matter so;
Let us not be skin to skin:
From heat cometh will.

‘Tis thy curling ringleted hair,
Thy grey eye bright as dew,
Thy lovely round white breast,
That draw the desire of eyes.

Every deed but the deed of the flesh
And to lie in thy bed of sleep
Would I do for thy love,
O woman full of wile!

These three poems do not at all come within the scope suggested by the title ‘Dánta Gríosuiġṫe Gaeḋeal,’ but it is necessary to include them in order to give an adequate representation of the powerful and versatile genius of Keating. ‘My Blessing with Thee, Writing,’ was written while Keating was in France (1603-10). ‘Keen Thyself, Poor Wight,’ is also attributed to Donough Mór O’Daly and to Angus O’Daly Fionn, but is commonly accepted as Keating’s. It is said to have been written in reply to a poem of David Dubh Fitzgerald’s on the death of his only son. O’Curry thought that ‘O Woman Full of Wile’ could not be Keating’s (although ascribed to him by all the MSS.) because it ‘contains no reference to his clerical character,’ but it is plainly just a dramatic lyric, and in no sense autobiographical. To say that a priest could not write such a poem would be to say that a priest could not be an artist.