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	Cúirt an Mhean-Oíche The Midnight Court Brian Merriman In part two of this poem, the Fair Lady has stopped speaking, and now it is the turn of the Old Fellow. He arises spitting fire and furious and with verbal dexterity tears her limb from limb.
A literal translation by David Sowby

CUID A DO Brian Preabann anuas go fuadrach fíochmhar Seanduine suarach agus fuadach nimhe faoi, A bhaill ar luascadh agus luas anála air, Draighean 'is duais ar fud a cnámha. Ba dhearóil an radharc go deimhin don chúirt é. Ar bhord na taibhse is dom éisteacht dúirt sé:

PART TWO Brian Up jumps, fussy and furious, A paltry old fellow with violence of venom under him, His limbs swinging, and panting on him, Anger and distress throughout his bones. It was pitiable the sight certainly for the court he was. At the witness table and to my hearing he said:

Seanduine Dochar 'is díobháil agus síorchrá cléibh ort, A thoice le místáid de shíol gá 'is déirce! Is dóigh nach ionadh luí na gréine, Agus fós gach díth dar imigh ar Éirinn. Mar mheath gach ceart gan reacht gan dlí againn, Ár mba bhí bleacht gan lacht gan lao againn, Agus dá dtagadh níos mó de mhórscrios tíortha Gach faisean dá nuacht ag Mór 'is Síle! A thoice gan chríoch, nach chuimhin le táinte Olcas an tsíolraigh daoine ó dtángais, Gan focal le maíomh ag do shinsir ghránna Ach lópaigh gan bhri, lucht míre 'is mála! Is aithnid dúinne an súmaire is athair duit, Gan chara, gan chlú, gan chúil, gan airgead, Ina leibide liath, gan chiall, gan mhúineadh, Gan mheidhir, gan mhias, gan bhia, gan anlann, Gan faic ar a Ehabhal 'is a dhrom gan chóta; Gad ar a chom 'sa bhonn gan bhróga. Creidigí, a dhaoine, dá ndíolta ar aonach Eisean 'sa mhaoin, d'éis íoc gach éilimh, Dar colainn na naomh! ba dhícheall mór dó Pota maith dí lena fhuíollach a fhuascailt. Nach mór an t-ábhacht 'san gleo idir dhaoine Trudaire ded short gan bhó gan chaora; Búclaí id bhróga agus clóca síoda ort; Ciarsúir phóca ag gabháil na gaoithe. Dallair an saol go léir le taibhse; Dob aithne dom féin tú i dtaobh le caidhp bheag. Is deacair liom labhairt! Do lom is léir dom! Is fada do dhrom gan chabhair ón léine; (Is togha drochdhuine do thuigfeadh ina gá tú!) Agus feabhas do rufaí le do mhuinchillí cambric. Tá canbhas saor chun sraod dod bhásta, Agus cá bhfios don tsaol nach stays bhí id fháisceadh? Feiceann an tír ort frainsí 'is fáinní Agus ceileann do lámhainní gríos 'is gága. Aithris ar bord nó neosfad féin é An fada nár ólais deoir le do bhéile, A chonartaigh bhoicht na gcos gan ionnladh! Dochar id chorp le Bucks gan anlann. Is furas, dar liom. dod chúl a bheith taibhseach, Do chonarc le mo shúile an chúil ina luíonn tú. Garbh ná mín ní shíntear fútsa, Barrach ná líon dár sníomhadh le túirne; Ach mata ina smoirt gan phluid, gan súsa, Dealbh gan luid, gan chuilt, gan chlúda, I gcúil bhotháin gan áit chun luí ann, Ach tú sileáin agus fáisceadh aníos ann, Fiaile ag teacht go fras gan chuimse Agus rian na gcearc air trasna scríofa, Lag ina dhrom 'is gabhla ar lúbadh Agus clagarnach dhonn go trom ag túirling. A chumainn na bhfáidh! nach ard do labhair sí? Gustalach, galbhach, gártha. gabhann sí I ndatha, i gcóir, is i gclóca síoda. Faire go deo arú! Sceol cár fríth é. Aithris cá bhfaigheann tú an radharc so mhaígh tú! Agus aithris cár thuill tú an leadhb gan bhrí seo! Is deacair a shuíomh gur fríth é ar fónamh! Is gairid ó bhís gan síol gan órlach. Aithris cá bhfuair tú luach do húda Agus aithris cá bhfuair tú luach do ghúna? Ach ligimid uainn mar ghluais an cóta! Agus aithris cá bhfuair tú luach na mbróga! A Aoibheall cheannasach, charthanach, chumhachtach! Guím tú! gairim tú! freagair 'is fóir mé! Is fíor gur feasach mé farairí Fódla A bheith suite greamaithe ag sladairí an tsort seo. Dar láimh mo charad! is aithnid dom chomharsa, Lámh le baile agam; gairid dom' chomgar Buachaill sruimealta soineanta sóntach, 'Nar buaileadh duine acu chuige mar nuachar. Is searbh le mo chroí nuair chím im radharc í, A gradam, a críoch, a poimp 'is a taibhse, Sealbhán bó aici agus eorna ag fás di, Airgead póca is ór idir láimh aici. Chonarc inné í ar thaobh na sráide, Is cumasach tréan an léire mná í Malfaire másach, mágach, magúil, Marbh le cámas, lán de ládus. Mura mbeadh gur claon liom éad a mhúscailt, Scanall do scéith ná scéalta a scrúdú, Dob fhuras dom insint cruinn mar chualas. An chuma ina mbíodh sí sraoillte, suaite, Stróicthe ar lár agus gáir ina timpeall, Caite ar an sráid nó i stábla sínte. Mairfidh a tásc agus tráchtfar choíche Ar mharthain. ar cháil. 'is ar ghráin a gníomhartha. In Uí Bhreacáin an aráin 'is an fhíona. I dTír Mhic Calláin na mbánta míne, Ag isle 'is arda Báinse 'is Inse. I gCill Bhreacáin, an Chláir 'is Chuínche, Ag ciúnsaigh ainmhí Thradaraí an phónaire, Agus ag fionnsaigh falacha Creatlaí an chorda. Faire! ba chlaon í; tar éis a ndúirt sí Ghlacfainn go saor í faoin a cionnta. Ach bheirim don phláigh í, lá mar chínn í, Leagtha láimh le Gárus sínte, Caite ar an ród 'is gan orlach fúithi Ag gramaisc na móna ar bhóithre Dhubhrois. M'iontas ann os cionn mo chéille Agus crithim go fann le scanradh an scéil so Ise bheith seang nuair theann gach aon í, 'Is ag druidim le clann nuair theanntaigh féin é! Is mór na grásta le rá é i mbriathra Nóiméad spáis níor ghá le h-iarraidh, Ó léadh ar bord os comhair na ndaoine, An t-Ego Vos so a ordaigh Íosa, Gur shéid sí lacht go bleacht ina cíocha, Seacht mí beacht 'is seachtain cinnte! Breathnaigh gur baol don té atá scaoilte Ceangal go h-éag faoi thaobh don chuing so, I seilbh gach séad agus éad a shuathadh; In aisce, mo léan! mo léann ní fhuaireas! Is feasach don tsaol 'is don taobh so mar bhí mé, Sealad dem réim 'is dem laethe roimhe seo, Leathadach, láidir, láo de shaibhreas, lostas le fáil agus fáilte im theaghlach, Cairde i gcúirt agus cúnamh dlí agam, Ceannas 'is clú i gcóir na saoithe, Tathag im chaint, suim agus éifeacht, Talamh is maoin i suíomh mo chéille, M'aigne sítheach 'is m'intinn sásta, Gur chailleas le mnaoi mo bhrí 'is mo shláinte! Ba thaitneamhach leabhair an crobhaire mná í, Bhí seasamh 'is com 'is cabhail 'is cnámha aici, Casadh ina cúl go buclach trillseach, Lasadh ina gnúis go lonrach soilseach, Cuma na h-óige agus só ina gáire, Agus cuireadh ina cló chun póige 'is fáilte. Ach crithim le fonn gan chabhair, gan chairde, Ó bhaithis go bonn go dtabharfainn grá di. Is dearfa gan dabhta ar domhan gur dhíoltas Danartha, donn, dom thabhairt ar m'aimhleas. D'fhearthainn go trom ar bhonn mo ghníomhartha Ó fhlaitheas le fonn a lom ina líon mé.

Old Fellow Harm and injury and perpetual torment of the breast on you, Oh hussy with bad state of seed, need and alms! It is likely that it is not a surprise the sunset, And still every loss that came on Ireland, As decays our every right without statute without law, Our cows were milkers without milk-yield, and calfless, And if there should come further great ruin of the lands Every fashion, if a novelty, on Muriel and Sheila! You hussy unwed, don't we know, with everyone, The evil of the breed of people from which you came? There wasn't a word to boast about your ugly ancestors But useless slovens, a bit-and-bag crew! We know the parasite who is your father, Without a friend, reputation, nook or money, A grey-haired slovenly eejit without sense or manners, Without a pail or a dish, without food or sauce, Without a rag on his crotch and his back without a coat: A rope round his middle, his feet without shoes. Believe, oh ye people, that if sold at a fair Himself and his property, after payment of every bill, By the body of saints! he'd be doing his best A good pot of drink with its dregs to redeem. Isn't it great the joking and the clamour among people A stutterer of your sort, without cow, without sheep; Buckles on your shoes and a silken cloak on you; A pocket-handkerchief catching the winds. You deceive the whole world with pretentious display; It was myself knew you on account of a small cap. It is hard for me to say it! Your poverty is clear to me! It is long your back [has] no help from a shirt; (It's the choice of bad folk who'd know you need it!) And fine are your frills on your cambric sleeves. There is cheap canvas for the lining of your waistband, And who knows that it isn't stays that're squeezing you in! The country sees on you fringes and rings While your gloves conceal blotches and cracks. Tell the board or I myself will relate it The length that you didn't drink a drop with your meal, You meddlesome pauper of unwashed feet! Suffering in your body from spuds without sauce. It is easy, I think, for your head of hair to be showy, I saw with my eyes the nook in which you lie. Rough nor smooth is not stretched under you, Tow nor flax were spun on a spinning-wheel; But a mat in its filth, without a blanket or rug, Bare, without a rag, quilt or cover, In the back of a cabin without a place for lying there, But falling soot and ground seepage there, Weeds coming plentifully, without limit And a track of hens written across it, Weak in its back and gables ever bending And a brown pelting downpour heavily descending. Oh fellowship of prophets! how loud did she speak! Self-important, bilious, shouting, she goes In colours, correctly dressed, and in cloak of silk. Watch out forever indeed! It's a story where it was got. Tell where you get this sight you boast about! And tell where you earned this useless rag! It is hard to make out that it was got validly! It's not long since you were without seed or a bit of land. State where you got the price of your hood And tell where you got the price of your gown? But we'll leave out where the coat sprang from! And tell where you got the price of the shoes! Oh Aoibheall, commanding, charitable, powerful! I pray you! call on you! answer and help me! It is true, I knew, that the guardians of Ireland Are established and bound to plunderers of this type. By the hand of my friend! I recognise a neighbour, I'm near to home; near to my neighbourhood An untidy boy, innocent, naive, On whom was forced one of them as a spouse. It is bitter to my heart when I see her in my sight, Her grandeur, her marriage, her pomp, her showing-off, She has a herd of cows and barley growing for her. Silver in pocket and gold between her hands. I saw her yesterday at the side of the yard: It's powerful, strong, the fine figure of a woman she is A sturdy person, big-thighed, clumsy, mocking, Dead with fault-finding, full of sauciness. Unless it would be that I was inclined to stir up envy, Scandal to spread or stories to pry into. It would be easy for me to tell exactly as I heard it. The manner in which she used to be slovenly, confused. Smitten to the floor and uproar around her, Thrown on to the yard or stretched in a stable. Her infamy will live, and will be spoken of forever Her life, her reputation and the shame of her deeds. In Ivrecan of the bread and the wine, In Tiermaclane of the smooth meadows. To low and high in Bansha and Inch, In Kilbricken, Clarecastle and Quin, To the beastly young women of Traderee of the beans, And the spiteful swindlers of Cratloe of the corduroy. Watch out! she was evil; after all she said I would freely accept her concerning her offences. But I bring her to the plague, the day I used to see her, Knocked down near to Garus, stretched out, Thrown on the road and without an inch under her With the turf mob on the roads of Durrus. My wonder there exceeding my reason And I tremble weakly with astonishment at this story Herself to be slender when everyone squeezed her, And nearing offspring when I myself squeezed it! It is great the grace to say it in words A moment's interval there was no need to request, From reading at the altar before the people This I join you that Jesus instituted, That she blew out milk copiously in her breasts, Seven months exactly and a week certainly! Notice that it'd be a danger to the person who is free Of ties till death regarding this bond, In possession of all wealth and jealousy at his confusion; In vain, my sorrow! my lesson I did not yet! It is known to the world and to this region how I was, Part of my career and of my days before this; Tolerant, strong, full of wealth, Lodging to be had and a welcome in my household; I had friends at court and legal help, Authority and fame among the wise; Substance in my speech, value and significance, Land and property as proof of my prudence, My disposition peaceful and my mind content, Till I lost to a woman my vigour and my health. It was a pleasant, graceful, strong able woman she was, She had poise and waist and body and bones, A curl in her hair, ringleted, in long tresses, A blush in her face, bright and luminous, An appearance of youth and joy in her smile; And an invitation in her aspect for kisses and bliss. But I tremble with desire, helpless, without respite, From head to foot that I might make love to her. 'Tis certain, without a doubt in the world, that vengeance Cruel, hard, that led me astray. Of heavy rain that came on the heels of my deed From heaven with desire to catch me in its net.

Brian Merriman, born in Co. Clare and a mathematics teacher by profession, wrote this poem in 1781. It has been described as one of the most perceptive accounts ever written of Irish sexual mores. This is a literal and otherwise unpublished translation by David Sowby.

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