Welsh Journals

The Yellow Bittern By DAVID MARCUS From the Irish of YELLOW CAUL McGILLIGAN O BITTERN bright, my woe's your plight And your body broken after your skite Nor was it a blight, but the deadly drought That stretched you out and sapped your might. Far worse to me than Troy's treachery You to see on the cold, cold ice Who were kind in word and always preferred Water to wine at any price. 0 bittern sweet, my sorrow's great To see your state--dead at my feet For many days I could hear your praise As you lazily drank the waters sweet. Ah, 'tis said by all to your brother Caul That he'll lose his life if he doesn't stop But that's absurd-here's this poor bird Who expired at length from lack of a drop. O bittern young, 'tis my heavy curse With you stretched cold upon the ground, And the mice, grown bold, trailing your hearse, In drunken song their pleasure crowned. If you had sent word-or if I heard That you needed my aid in your fearful plight, A hole I'd have made in Beasey's lake Where your thirst you could slake to your heart's delight. 'Tis not the ousel, heron or thrush Or other birds have caused my dolour, But the bittern bright whose joy was light, He was like meself in habit and colour Where waters flow he would always go, And I haven't stopped since I had my first; Sure I never disdain a drop or a drain For fear of the day I might die of thirst.