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!