lirik lagu michael macliammoir - under ben bulben
swear by what the sages spoke
round the mareotic lake
that the witch of atlas knew
spoke and set the c~cks a~crow
swear by those hors~m~n, by those women
complexion and form prove superhuman
that pale, long visaged company
that airs an immortality
completeness of their passions won;
now they ride the wintry dawn
where ben bulben sets the scene
here’s the gist of what they mеan
many times man lives and dies
bеtween his two eternities
that of race and that of soul
and ancient ireland knew it all
whether man dies in his bed
or the rifle knocks him dead
a brief parting from those dear
is the worst man has to fear
though grave~diggers’ toil is long
sharp their spades, their muscle strong
they but thrust their buried men
back in the human mind again
you that mitchel’s prayer have heard
`send war in our time, o lord!’
know that when all words are said
and a man is fighting mad
something drops from eyes long blind
he completes his partial mind
for an instant stands at ease
laughs aloud, his heart at peace
even the wisest man grows tense
with some sort of violence
before he can accomplish fate
know his work or choose his mate
poet and sculptor do the work
nor let the modish painter shirk
what his great forefathers did
bring the soul of man to god
make him fill the cradles right
measurement began our might:
forms a stark egyptian thought
forms that gentler phidias wrought
michael angelo left a proof
on the sistine chapel roof
where but half~awakened adam
can disturb globe~trotting madam
till her bowels are in heat
proof that there’s a purpose set
before the secret working mind:
profane perfection of mankind
quattrocento put in paint
on backgrounds for a god or saint
gardens where a soul’s at ease;
where everything that meets the eye
flowers and grass and cloudless sky
resemble forms that are, or seem
when sleepers wake and yet still dream
and when it’s vanished still declare
with only bed and bedstead there
that heavens had opened
gyres run on;
when that greater dream had gone
calvert and wilson, blake and claude
prepared a rest for the people of god
palmer’s phrase, but after that
confusion fell upon our thought
irish poets learn your trade
sing whatever is well made
scorn the sort now growing up
all out of shape from toe to top
their unremembering hearts and heads
base~born products of base beds
sing the peasantry, and then
hard~riding country gentlemen
the holiness of monks, and after
porter~drinkers’ randy laughter;
sing the lords and ladies gay
that were beaten into the clay
through seven heroic centuries;
cast your mind on other days
that we in coming days may be
still the indomitable irishry
under bare ben bulben’s head
in drumcliff churchyard yeats is laid
an ancestor was rector there
long years ago; a church stands near
by the road an ancient cross
no marble, no conventional phrase
on limestone quarried near the spot
by his command these words are cut:
cast a cold eye
on life, on death
horseman, pass by!
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