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	Cúirt an Mhean-Oíche The Midnight Court Brian Merriman The Old Fellow reports on his marriage to the Fair Lady and then his shock that a child was born well before time. It is clear that the child was not his, although it was healthy and sturdy. He cynically advocates the dropping of the silly law of marriage, and the repopulation of Ireland by allowing freedom of breeding.
A literal translation by David Sowby

Snaidhmeadh suite snaidhm na cléire, Agus ceangladh sinn i gcuing le chéile Ghlanas gan chinteacht suim gach éilimh A bhaineann le baois gan gaois an lae sin. Bhí cothram go leor ann, níor chóir mé a cháineadh, Stopas an gleo a bhí ag cóip na sráide, Bhí bacaigh ina dtréad ann 'san cléireach sásta, An sagart róbhuíoch 'is dob fhéidir fáth leis! Lasamar tóirsí 'is comharsain cruinn ann Agus leagadh ar bord chugainn mórchuid bia ann; Clagarnach ceoil 'is ól gan choimse Agus caitheadar cóisir mhórtach mhaoiteach. Mo dhíth gan easpa, ná tachtadh le bia mé An oíche baisteadh mé nó as san gur fhiaras, Seach síneadh ar leaba le h-ainnir a liath mé Agus scaoil le gealach, gan chara, gan chiall, mé Is é tásc uirthi d'faighinn ag óg 'is ag aosta, Gur bhrillín spóirt ag ól 'is ag glaoch í I mbotháin ósta agus boird á bpléascadh, Ar lár ina lóiste ag pósta agus aonta. Dob fhada á meilt a teist 'is a tuarisc; Dob fhada gur chreid mé a bheag ná a mhór de; Dob eaglach le gach beirt dá gcuala Go rachainn im pheilt im ghealt gan tuairisc; Fós ní ghéillfinn, caoch mar a bhí mé, Do ghlór gan éifeacht aon a mhaígh é, Ach magadh nó greim gan feidhm gan chéill. Gur aithris a broinn dom deimhin gach scéil. Níor chomhrá leamhais ná dúrtam bréige é, Ná dúirt-bean-liom-go-ndúirt-bean-léi é, Ach labhair an bheart i gceart 'is in éifeacht: Bhronn sí mac i bhfad roimh ré dom, Mo scanradh scéil, 'is gan féith dem chroí air! Clann do theacht chugam tar éis na h-oíche, Mo callóid anfach ainigí scólta! Bunóc ceangailte 'is bean an tí breoite, Posóid leagtha ar smeachaidí teo acu; Agus cuinneog bhainne á greadadh le fórsa; Mullach ar ardmhias, bánbhia 'is siúcra air Ag Muireann Ní Cháimlia, beanlia an Chrúca. Bhí coiste cruinnithe ag tuille dem chomharsain Cois na tine is ag shiosarnach domsa; Bhí trí nó ceathair de chailleacha maola 'Sa bpiopa tobac á gcaitheamh ar saothar, Á mhaíomh go daingean le racaireacht éithigh Gur bhuí a chraiceann a samhailt mo ghaolta; Go raibh a smuladh mar Philib Ó Laoire; Agus clár geall uchta mar Mhurchadh Ó Léime Gach ball uile de fuinte ar mo dhéanamh Ag drong an ghliocais chun mise a chaochadh. Dúirt Anna Ní Bhreasil le cailleach Uí Chlírigh: "Preab id sheasamh chomh tapa 'sis féidir! Faigh mún asail agus cac an ghé ghléigil Agus scag ar bhainne é do Chathal Mac Réamoinn, De dheasca na h-arrainge-san stadfaidh ina chaomhnacht. Agus fanfaidh sé ag baile aici ó ghealach an éada. Ní thabharfaidh faoi deara a cuid bearta míbhéasach; Agus déanfaidh sé folachadh agus athair maith bréagach; D'amharc a shúl, dar liom, ní ghéillfidh Fearaibh na Mumhan 'san chúig á céiliocht; Slata an truip bheith ciontach léi Ní dhéanfaidh rud de ach dúrtam bréige. Beidh cead feasta aici, margadh 'is aonach, Fuireach chois clathacha ag fearaibh á n-éisteacht, Teacht don bhaile in am coileach-chun-glaoite Tar éis a páiste a ghreadadh go néata. Abairse a dhalta ghil gur mhascalach bhéasach Agus Anna Ní Scannail ag caitheamh bhur mbéile, A fhan id aice-se ó mhaidin an lae inniu, Go teacht thar gheata bhí is fhaire 'is id chaomhnadh. Fanfaidh an gaige bocht, Cathal, gan éirim Cois an teallaigh ag baile tar a h-éise I bhfeighil na grathaine á mealladh 'is á mbréagadh 'Is ag coinneáil bainne leis an leanbh beag déanach. Is iomaí scaoinse 'is scraiste mar Chathal in Éirinn Agus rinseach galair ar easpa céille. Ag coimhdeacht caille 's ag ceadach giúirléidí Ag a mbíonn aici marcach de mhalairt a céile! Scaoilid cogar i bhfogas dom éisteacht, Míle moladh le solas na soilse! "Bíodh nach baileach a d'aibigh an cré so; Chímse an t-athair ina sheasamh ina chéadfaí. An bhfeiceann tú, a Shaidhbh, arú, luí a ghéaga, A dheilbh, a dhraighean, a bhaill 's a mhéaraibh, Cumas na lámh agus dánacht a dhóirne, Cuma na gcnámh agus fás na feola!" Cheapadar cruinn ann síol mo dhúchais, Mo mhaise, mo ghnaoi agus íor mo ghnúise, Filleadh mo shróna agus lonradh m'éadain, Deise mo chló, mo shnua, agus m'fhéachaint, Leagadh mo shúl agus fiú mo gháire, Agus faisean mo shiúil ó chúl go sála. Amharc ná radharc ní bhfaighimse den chréice, Is baileach gan leigheas a mhillfeadh gaoth é, Ag cuideachta an teaghlaigh i bhfeidhil Siolla na laghad ní bhfaighim den chréatuir, Labhras garbh agus d'agaras Íosa Le stolladh garbh agus bhagaras 'Gríosach', D'fhógaras fearg le h-ainbhios cainte, 'Sis dóigh gur chreathadar cailleacha an tí romham. Ar leisce an achrainn leagadar chugam é; "Beir go h-aireach air, seachain! ná brúigh é! Is furas é shuathadh, luasc go réidh é, Turraing a fuair sí, ruaig roimh ré é Seachain, ná fáisc é! Fág ina luí é! Is gairid an bás dó, 'is gearr a rachadh sé. Dá maireadh go lá 'is a bheith slán i gcló, An sagart le fáil, níor bhfearr bheith beo!" Bhaineas an tsnaidhm dá chuibhreach chumhdaigh Agus bhreathnaigh mé cruinn é sinte ar ghlúin liom. Muaireach! d'airigh mé tathagach tamhanda é, Fuair mé feargach, fearsadach, luaimneach, Láidir, leathan, mo leanbh ina ghuaille; Sála daingne 'is anchuid gruaige air, A chluasa cruinnithe agus ingne fásta; Chruadar uilleacha, a chroibh 'is a chnámha, D'aibigh a shúile agus fiú a phollaire; Agus d'airigh mé a ghlúine lúfar, láidir Coileán cumasach, cuisleannach, córach, Folláin, fuinneamhach, fulaingeach, feolmhar! Screadaim go h-ard le gáir na tíre Agus leagaim id láthair cás na ndaoine, Breathnaigh go caoin 'is bí truaimhéileach! Beanna a gcinn agus suim a gcéille! Athraigh an dlí seo, cuing na cléire, Agus ainic an bhuíon nár frioth san ngéibheann Má lagaigh an síolrach daonmhar, daona, I dtalamh dathaoibhinn fíorghlas Éireann, Is furas an tír d'athlíonadh le laocha D'uireaspa dlí gan bhrí, gan éifeacht. Cá bhfuil an gá le gáir na bainise, Carta biotáille agus pá lucht seinnte, Sumaigh ar bord go fóiseach taibhseach, Gliogar 'is gleo agus ól gan choimse, Ó d'aibigh an t-ábhar so a bhronn Mac Dé orm, Agus gan sagart ar domhan ár dtabhairt dá chéile? Is leathanmhear, láidir, lánghlan, léadmhar, Fairsing le fáil, an t-álmhach saor so. 'Is mó 'sis mire 'sis teinne 'sis tréine I gcló 'is i dtuiscint ná dlisteanaigh éinneach. Is minic a chímse iad bríomhar, bórrthach, Cumasach, líonta, i gcroí, 'is i gcóir iad; Créim ní fheicimse, daille ná caoiche, Ar aon den fhoireann dar h-oileadh le mnaoi ar bith, Is furas, mar luaimse, fuascailt suíte Agus cuid acu uasal, uaibhreach, íogair. Breathnaigh san gceantar teann ina gcló iad; Breathnaigh arís iad, bíodh gurab óg iad; Is dearfa, suite, i ndigh 'is i gcumhachta iad; Is preabairí cearta i gcorp 'is i gcnámh iad. Cá bhfuil a locht i gcois ná láimh acu?

A firm binding was the knot of the clergy, And we were tied in a bond together. I paid without meanness the cost of every claim That derives from the extravagent folly of that day. There was plenty there, it wouldn't be right to blame me, I stopped the row the street crowd were having, There were beggars in flocks there, and the sexton pleased, And the priest very thankful, and perhaps he had cause! We lit torches and neighbours gathered there, And was set on the table for us a large amount of food there; Clatter of music and drink without limit And they consumed a feast abundant and enviable. Alas, and alack! that I wasn't choked with food The night I was baptised or since then, when I strayed, Instead of stretched on a bed with a girl who wore me out And drove me to distraction, without friend, without sense, It's news about her I used to get from young and old, That she was a randy tart, drinking and calling for more In drinking booths with tables cracking, On her back in her lodging for married and single. For long being talked about her repute and her report; It was ages till I believed the long and the short of it; There was fearful for every couple that heard it That I'd go in my pelt as a madman without trace; That I wouldn't yield, blind as I was, To the useless voice of anyone who declared it, But mockery or a bit of pointless tomfoolery, senseless. Till her womb related to me the truth of every story. It wasn't talk of folly nor chatter of falsehood, Nor was it says-a-woman-to-me-that-a-woman-says-to-her, But the deed spoke correctly and significantly: She presented a son to me long before time, My fright of a tale, and not a drop of my blood in him! An offspring that comes to me after nightfall, My wail, stormy, peevish, tormented! An infant swaddled and the woman of the house sick, A posset laid on the hot embers for them; And a pail of milk being churned with force; A heap on a high dish, white meat and sugar on it For Marian Camley, the midwife of Crúca. There was a jury gathered of more of my neighbours Beside the fire and whispering to me; There were three or four bald hags And their pipes of tobacco being smoked busily, Proclaiming firmly with a gossiping of lies That his skin was yellow, like that of my relatives; That his snout was like Philip O'Leary's; And the bright expanse of his chest like Murra O'Léime's Each and every limb of him formed in my shape By the cunning rabble to fool me. Said Anna O'Brassill to the O'Clery hag: "Jump up into your standing as quick as you're able! Get urine of ass and excrement of a pure white goose And strain it in milk for Cathal Redmond, On account of that stabbing pain he'll stay in her company. And will stay at her home, from madness of jealousy. He'll not notice her [share of] ill-mannered actions; And he'll provide a cover and a fine false paternity; The sight of his eyes I think he'll not believe Men of Munster and the province being her society, The rods of the mob being culpable with her He'll not make anything of it except a chatter of falseness. There will be permission from now for her, market and fair, A wait beside ditches for men a-listening, Coming home at time of cock-crow After her child was well beaten. Tell, dear child, that a polite fair lady And Anna Scannell consuming your meal, Who stayed along with you from morning today Until milking time, was guarding you and protecting you. The poor fop Cathal will stay, without talent, Beside the fire at home after her exit, In charge of the petty things, enticing and cajoling them, And supplying milk to the latest small child. There's many a loafer and layabout like Cathal in Ireland, And a dotard of misery with an absence of sense. Escorting a girl and loaning his implements To whomever is giving her a ride instead of her husband!" They let loose a whisper near to my hearing, A thousand praises to the light of lights! "Although not fully has [it] developed, this thing of clay; I myself see the father in his bearing and his demeanour. Do you see, Sive, indeed, the set of his arms, His figure, his angry appearance, his limbs and his fingers, The capability of his hands and the boldness of his fists, The shape of his bones and the growth of his flesh!" They fashioned exactly there a seed of my heritage, My beauty, my comeliness, the shape of my countenance, The curve of my nose and the radiance of my forehead, The niceness of my figure, my complexion and my look, A glance of my eye and even my laughter, And the manner of my walk from back to heels. Sight nor view I did not get of the wretch, It is sure that, without help, wind would ruin him, From the company of the household intent on deceiving mo chaochta me. Not a glance in the least did I get of the creature, I spoke up roughly and implored Jesus With a rough blast and I threatened 'Havoc', I proclaimed anger with ignorance of speech, And I think that the house-hags trembled before me. On reluctance to quarrel they set him before me; "Take him carefully! Look out! Don't crush him! It's easy to disturb him, rock him gently! She got a shock, she expelled him before time, Mind, don't squeeze him! leave him lying! It is near death is to him, it's soon he'd go. If he should live till day and to be sound in body, The priest to be got, it wouldn't be better to be alive!" I undid the knot on his binding cover And I examined him closely, stretched out on my knee. Heavens above! I perceived him [to be] solid, burly, I found him lusty, brawny, restless, Strong, broad [was] my child in his shoulders, Heels of firmness and a lot of hair on him, His ears formed and his nails grown; Hard elbows, his hands and his bones, His eyes matured and even his nostrils; And I noticed his knees, agile, strong A powerful puppy, strong-armed, comely, Healthy, energetic, patient, fleshy! I shout aloud about the repute of the country And I lay before you the concern of the people, Examine gently and be compassionate! Horns on their heads and the extent of their [good] sense! Change this law, a yoke of the clergy, And beware of the crowd that were begotten out of wedlock If the seed of humankind is weakened, In the land of Ireland, beautiful-coloured, pure-green, It's easy to refill the country with heroes By doing without a senseless, pointless law. Where is the need for the uproar of the wedding feast, Quarts of spirits and pay for people playing music, Youths at table, over-fed, showing off, Prattle and noise and drink without limit, Since this object developed that the Son of God presented me, And without a priest in the world at our coming together? It is extensive, strong, fully well-made, daring, Plentiful to be got, this free brood. Bigger and nimbler and firmer and stronger In body and understanding than legitimate offspring of anyone. Often I see them vigorous, proud, Powerful, fulfilled in heart and in authority; Defect see I not, [neither] blindness nor squinting, On any of the crowd that was reared by any woman at all, It's easy, as I mention, to prove without question When some of them are noble, proud, lofty. Observe them in the district, sturdy, strong in their bodies; Observe them again, even be they young, It is certain, well-set in drink and authority they are; It's right boyos in body and bone they are. Where is their fault in their foot or hand?

Ní searraigh sheanda ná gandail geosach', Meallaigh gan chuma ná sumaigh gan síneadh, Ach lansaí chumasacha 'is buinní mearbhríomhara. Is deacair a mheas nach spreas gan bhrí ar bith, A bheadh ceangailte ar nasc ar tasc ag mnaoi ar bith, Gan chnámh, gan chumas, lag, tuisleach ina dhrom, Gan ghrá, gan chumann, gan fuinneamh, gan fonn, A scaipeadh i mbroinn gach maighre mná Le neartmhaire 'is feidhm gach groighre bhreá Mar chuireadh do shuí gan mhoill, gan bhréag, Le chumas a bhaill agus luíomh a ghéag Gur chrobhaire é chrothadh go cothram gan cháim Le fonn na fola 'is fothram na sláint'. Leis sin, ná h-iarrsa, a ríon réaltach, Milleadh na dtriath le riail gan éifeacht. Scaoil a chodladh gan chochall, gan chlaoiteacht, Síol na mbodach 'is an mhogalfhuil mhaoiteach. Scaoil faoi chéile de réir nádúra An síolrach saor gan bhraon lábúrtha. Fógair féilteach trí gach tíortha D'óg 'is d'aosta saorthoil síolraigh. Cuirfidh an dlí so gaois i nGaelaibh Agus tiocfaidh an bhrí mar bhí ina laocha; Ceapfaidh sí com 'is drom 'is dóirne D'fhearaibh an domhain mar Gholl MacMorna; Gealfaidh an spéir agus beidh éisc i linnte Agus talamh an tsléibhe go léir faoi luibheanna; Fir agus mná go bráth dá bhíthin Ag seinnm do cháil le gárdas aoibhnis.

Neither ancient foals nor ravenous ganders [are they], Shapeless lumps nor unstretched youths, But able blades and saplings quickly robust. 'Tis hard to judge that an effete person, completely useless, Who'd be bound by a tether to a task by any woman at all, Boneless, impotent, weak, faltering in his back, Without love, friendship, vigour or desire, Would spread seed in the womb of every handsome woman With the strength and power of every fine stallion Which he proved without delay, without deceit, With the prowess of his organ and the lay of his limbs That he was an able man, sowing seed evenly and faultlessly With desire of the blood and lustiness of youth. Therefore, don't you demand, oh starry queen, The ruination of the nobles by a pointless rule. Release to sleep without a sheath, without meanness, The offspring of louts and boastful noble blood. Release together, according to nature, The free-born without a plebeian strain. Declare at the proper time, through all countries. To young and old, freedom of breeding. This law will instil wisdom into Gaels And vigour will come back as it was in the heroes; She will fashion waist and back and fists, For the men of the earth like Goll MacMorna; The sky will brighten and there'll be fish in pools And the mountain-land wholly under plants; Men and women forever on that account Singing your fame with joy of bliss.

	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. To be continued.

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