BAPTISED a child of Lir, Mythic daemon
Of the air, as pistol unto stamen.
Behold! In fables prone to hyperbole,
Or gadabouts, as brave in heart as soul.
By rattle and by snake, you take the poison,
Awash with tears, feather we, to medicine.
Conspicuous in ornamentation,
Victorious in sexual-selection.
Middling ‘for they enter the arena,
Volte-face; beguiled by your demeanour.
Paradise-lover, spent on pheasantry.
A muse of singing as, Melpomene,
Calamity? No! Not e’er a friend to tragedy.
Hitherto, her heart is set in Emeraldry.
A-foot, in green and pleasant land, and yet,
O’er Celtic Sea her loyalty is met.
Our two shores, by antiquity, divide,
Unabridged by the bitter salt of tide.
Iridescence, in blue-green and gold,
Addressing eyes to watch her tale unfold.
Go on so! Dance and sing a panoply
As peahens flock to tender your display.
Far-crying and stentorian diphthong,
Of English sung in Irish mother tongue.
A caper at the ceilidh, no redress.
Let’s drink to Bacchanalian excess!
‘Til blood of Christ hath turned malodorous,
And fouler air was ne’er so barbarous.
Upon this host, you’ve left your mark, as then,
Eighteenth century Sweden, he did pen;
The botanist, Carolus Linnaeus.
So, Slainte mhaith! Pavo cristatus.
Written in the style of John Oldham, still finding my feet with style.