George Harding (my version of Seán 0'Riordáin's 1948 Oireachtas poem )
Silk of the Kine I heard through the thoughts of the night, the lowing of a Cow I understood its correct meaning and disliked living now. The Droimeann Donn Dílis was in the woods in fever and the language of our forefathers cold and dead forever. I stole within the woods and brought my sorrow An Droimeann Donn Dílis quivering like an arrow and the point of his horn digging alone slowly with a blunt spade burying a precious stone. “The Lament for Art Ó Laoghaire” lying among the pearls every turn in the line of music a chain of jewels the lays of the Fianna no order or shape and “Cúirt an Mhéan Oíche” thrown in the mud agape. “O Droimeann Donn Dílis” Said I “my Cow I came to this wood hearing your moan now to face with common sense and no one in line the death of our ancestors’ language O Silk of the Kine”. I have to tell your Excellency, my Cow, my heart is broken at the fate of these jewels, and how I’ll make for you a little lay From the marrow of the pups In the language of our forefathers 30