pp. 25 - 26, The Anthology of the Potato

After his letter to the reader, poet Seán Ó Neachtain prefaces his account of the Cáth -- the Battle -- with an address in honor of the potato. It's supposed to be amusing, a eulogy. But it gives me goosebumps: this was written a good hundred years before the Great Hunger to which the potato blight contributed. It is as if the poet saw it coming.

It is a loss that the potato has died, a cause for grumbling, lamentation for the people of the mountain, not for them alone the disaster but for all Ireland.
Sad am I at its wake, it is my cause of sorrow and hardship, its death is worse to me than the death of father and mother.
My dear Spaniard was like Guaire as regards hospitality, his death will be death for the Gaels, woe to them all. Thousands used to come together to the feasting table of the Prince, and neither sage nor nobleman ever saw a frown on his forehead. The King had him at times -- game that was not trivial -- the Queen was kissing him as they were mouth to mouth without hiding.

He is dear to the Lady, he is dearly loved by the old woman, he is the cheerful toy of the baby when his mother is away from home.
He never told friends there was not welcome for them, and he says to the very poor man "come to us every time." He is the dearly loved of every maiden, he is the great delight of every old man, he is the desire of the youth who kiss him in bed. He is the dispenser to the poor, the man who relieves their groans, the man who reconciles the great company of poets, he is the one who accomplishes many of these things.

From the first of August in the Autumn until the feast of Patrick in the Spring, his table is not without maintenance nor his smooth countenance without laughter. The like of the potato is not to be found in Ireland; very seldom is his table seen without ever-lasting happiness and roast meat.

I beseech the High King of Heaven, that the potato may not part from us without leaving bright white heirs -- as long as a grain remains in ricks. From the onset of the brightness of the sun until it sets at the end of its journey, I never saw its like for goodness, love and hospitality. May He who took Jonah from the belly of the whale, release the noble one from the hard prison of the ice.

Do that, O Creator, and take the depression from Ireland; he who would not say Amen to that wish is a person without grace or goodness.

The death of the great Caesars was not a torment to them like the death of the dear young Spaniard; this is the death that has left everyone in sorrow until death -- their death, my death, and the death of the men of Ireland also.

[This is followed by:
"Here for you is the battle of the Gap...." see post 1.]