An Craoibhin Complains Because He Is A Poet

It's my grief that I am not a little white duck,     And I'd swim over the sea to France or to Spain;     I would not stay in Ireland for one week only,     To be without eating, without drinking, without a full jug.     Without a full jug, without eating, without drinking,     Without a feast to get, without wine, without meat,     Without high dances, without a big name, without music;     There is hunger on me, and I astray this long time.     It's my grief that I am not an old crow,     I would sit for awhile up on the old branch,     I could satisfy my hunger, and I not as I am     With a grain of oats or a white potato     It's my grief that I am not a red fox,     Leaping strong and swift on the mountains,     Eating cocks and hens without pity,     Taking ducks and geese as a conquerer.     It's my grief that I am not a bright salmon,     Going through the strong full water,     Catching the mayflies by my craft,     Swimming at my choice, and swimming with the stream     It's my grief that I am of the race of the poets;     It would be better for me to be a high rock,     Or a stone or a tree or an herb or a flower     Or anything at all but the thing that I am!