'An tOcras Mór' The Great Hunger.

Swift Revenge

Strolling past Trinity's gates one day,

I was startled by a beggar who dove in my way.

I had imagined swans paddling cold,

perhaps mating in a violent hold;

or joyous sea-bird on a strand alone--

this hawk dropped before me like stone.

Talons out, she squawked, "Change to spare?"

while wind ruffled her feathery hair.

It seemed she chose me from a crowd

like falcon loosed from little cloud.

Eying me close, she cawed and swore,

"You've more than me that's for sure!"

Dissatisfied with my paltry shilling,

she barred my way till I was willing

to fling her more.

At once I thought of a modest proposal:

All the mendicants at Dublin's disposal

would feed the English privileged class--

Unstuffed peasant under glass.