The Mocking Bird

High in the hills of winter snows,

where rusty heather’s all that grows,

there lies a simple path of sand

which winds through scrub and barren land,

by walls and sheepfolds, winding down

all the way to Bantry Town.

 

Beside the pathway, sprouting free,

there stands a thriving hawthorn tree.

By those who pass along that way

at any time of any day, 

from out its branches can be heard

the squawking of the Mocking Bird.

 

The sun rose over Cullen Hill:

unhealthy vapors lingered, still:

untended clumps of wind-sown corn

were huddled in the dubious dawn.

Gaunt cattle, with suspicious eye,

observed a Poet, passing by.

 

His youthful face was all forlorn:

that pale young brow looked pinched and drawn:

he filled the air with frequent sighs:

an ocean lay within his eyes!

In thoughtful solitude he frowned,

and noticed naught that lay around.

 

Wrapped in his private misery,

He wandered by the hawthorn tree.

The Mocking Bird (sarcastic knave!)

cried, “Ho, young master! Why so grave?

This joyless posture’s quite absurd --

You are the human, I the bird!

 

Your race rules over everything:

since I’m a beast, you are my King.

My humble life is simply led --

no weeping renders my eyes red!

Yet you, for all your airs and graces,

would wear the wretchedest of faces!

 

Escuchame y hazme caso.

I’m a witless, worthless oiseau,

while you’re a fragile, feeling soul,

but who’s diminished?  Who is whole?

Which of us, to the nearest me,

is laughing in a hawthorn tree?”

 

“I’d rather feel,” the Scribe replied,

“the pains of love, or wounded pride,

and know the wealth of feeling, friend,

that’s understood by none but men.

Yes, thrice my pain I’d undergo,

to know what you will never know!”

 

Author's Note

Escuchame y hazme caso -- Listen to me and understand what I say (Spanish)
oiseau -- bird (French)