Poems of James Clarence Mangan (Many hitherto uncollected): Centenary edition: Edited, with preface and notes by D. J. O'Donoghue: Introduction by John Mitchel |
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MY THREE TORMENTORS.
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 | Poems of James Clarence Mangan |  |
MY THREE TORMENTORS.
(Song of a Maniac.)
Three spirits there be who haunt me always,
Plaguing my spirit in sundry small ways.
One is apparelled in purple and red;
He sits on a barrel—a chaplet of laurel
Which ought to be mine, and was before he
Robbed me of brains, and bread, and glory,
Wreathèd around his globular head,
And a royal and richly bubbling cup
Of the blood that he drains from his victims' veins
In his hand, that shakes as he lifts it up!
Oh, woe, woe,
And sorrow,
To me, to be
His slave,
Through every coming morrow,
Till years lay me low,
Low in an honourless grave!
Plaguing my spirit in sundry small ways.
One is apparelled in purple and red;
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Which ought to be mine, and was before he
Robbed me of brains, and bread, and glory,
Wreathèd around his globular head,
And a royal and richly bubbling cup
Of the blood that he drains from his victims' veins
In his hand, that shakes as he lifts it up!
Oh, woe, woe,
And sorrow,
To me, to be
His slave,
Through every coming morrow,
Till years lay me low,
Low in an honourless grave!
My second tormentor, a weazened old pigmy,
Delves in a mine, as though he would dig my
Grave, or his own—I'd hardly care which!
His visage is wrinkled and dust-besprinkled,
His clothes are in rags, yet he heaps together
Bright gold by the bushel; one scarce knows whether
The hateful old hunks be poor or be rich!
His gold is ever before his view;
He worships it, he, and alas! makes me
In spite of my conscience, worship it too!
Oh, woe, woe,
And sorrow,
To me, to be
His slave,
Through every coming morrow,
Till years lay me low,
Low in an honourless grave!
Delves in a mine, as though he would dig my
Grave, or his own—I'd hardly care which!
His visage is wrinkled and dust-besprinkled,
His clothes are in rags, yet he heaps together
Bright gold by the bushel; one scarce knows whether
The hateful old hunks be poor or be rich!
His gold is ever before his view;
He worships it, he, and alas! makes me
In spite of my conscience, worship it too!
Oh, woe, woe,
And sorrow,
To me, to be
His slave,
Through every coming morrow,
Till years lay me low,
Low in an honourless grave!
The third—oh! the third is a marvellous creature,
Infant-like, and of heavenly feature!
His voice is rich as the song of the spheres;
But ah! what tragic unrest its magic
Doth bring to the bosom who shall tell of?
To me that voice has been as the knell of
Death and Despair through bitterest years!
And then, his bright but mischievous eyes!
Their mildest glance is the wound of a lance,
'Neath which the heart's blank innocence dies!
Oh, woe, woe,
And sorrow,
To me, to be
A slave
To these through every morrow,
Till years lay me low,
Low in mine honourless grave!
Infant-like, and of heavenly feature!
His voice is rich as the song of the spheres;
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Doth bring to the bosom who shall tell of?
To me that voice has been as the knell of
Death and Despair through bitterest years!
And then, his bright but mischievous eyes!
Their mildest glance is the wound of a lance,
'Neath which the heart's blank innocence dies!
Oh, woe, woe,
And sorrow,
To me, to be
A slave
To these through every morrow,
Till years lay me low,
Low in mine honourless grave!
| Poems of James Clarence Mangan | |