John Derrick -
An Irish Lord feasting in the open air

Well beeves are knocked down, the butchers play their part,
Then take each one the entrails forth, and liver with the heart.
And being breathing new the unwashed puddings they
Upon the coals or embers hot for want of gridiron lay.

And scarce not half enough (draff serveth well for hogs),
They take them up and fall thereto like ravening hungry dogs.
Devouring gut and limb no part doth come amiss,
Whose lips and chaps with blood do swim most true report is this.
As for the greatest kern they have the chiefest stuff,
Though dirty stripes and offal like please underknaves enough.
Whereof they part do roast and other some do boil,
Thus what between the sod and roast fierce hunger they assoil.

No table there is spread, they have no courtlike guise.
The earth sometimes stands them instead whereon their victual lies.
Their cushions are of straw, of rushes or of hay,
Made banquette-wise with withies their tails to underlay.
Their platters are of wood by cunning turners made,
But not of pewter (credit me) as in our English trade.

Now ere the lord sits down with concubine or wife,
(Whereof he often makes exchange in compass of his life),
Before he takes his room a friar doth begin,
To bless the rebel with his wife the place and thieves therein.
Which when he blessed hath in highest place of all,
The chieftain then this traitorous knave like honest man doth 'stall.
And next his surgeon he doth set at friar's side,
And then himself his room enjoyeth adorned with his bride.

In fine, the hellish rout like lucky fellows met,
Do sit them down on straw or ground their victuals for to get.
Long stabbers pluck they forth instead of handsome knives,
And with the same they slash me out good God what pretty shives.

Not shives of bread I mean for that were very rare,
But Gobs of flesh not boiled enough which is their common fare.
Their chiefest drink is milk, for want of milk, the broth,
They take which thing the surgeon swears is physic by his troth.
And if that broth be scant yet water is at hand,
For every river yields enough within that goodly land
Again if fortune fawneth or on them chance to smile.
She fills them with usquebaugh (uisce beatha) and wine another while.
O that is cheer in bowls it beautifieth the feast,
And makes them look with drunken nolls from most unto the least.

Now when their guts be full then comes the pastime in,
The bar and harper melody unto them do begin.
This bard he doth report the noble conquests done,
And eke in rhymes shows forth at large their glory thereby won.
Thus he at random runneth; he pricks the rebels on,
And shows by such external deeds their honour lies upon.
And more to stir them up to prosecute their ill,
What great renown their fathers got they show by rhyming skill.
And they most gladsome are to hear of parents' name,
As how by spoiling honest men and they won such endless fame.
Wherefore like graceless grafts sprung from a wicked tree,
They grow through daily exercise to all iniquity.

And more t'augment the flame and rancour of their heart,
The friar of his counsels vile to rebels doth impart.
Affirming that it is an alms deed to God,
To make the English subjects taste the Irish rebels' rob.
To spoil, to kill, to burn, the friar's counsel is,
And for the doing of the same he warrants heavenly bliss.
He tells a holy tale, the white he turns to black,
And through the pardons in his mail he works a knavish knack.

(Extract from John Derrick, Image of Ireland)

End

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