This is another of Austin Clarke’s beautifully musical short lyrics (see also week 278). It appears at first sight to be a simple enough poem about a woman loved and admired for her beauty, but I have seen more than one interpretation that attempts to set it against the background of Irish social history. According to these, it is significant that the woman is the daughter of a ‘planter’: that is to say, a landowner brought in by the British and settled on land confiscated from the native Irish. The Plantation of Ulster, for example, began in 1606, after the defeat of the last Irish chieftains and acceptance of English rule, when vast tracts of land were given to immigrants, mainly from England and Scotland, who were required to be Protestant and English-speaking.
This practice naturally inspired envy and resentment among the dispossessed, as hinted at in the line ‘The house of the planter is known by the trees’ – that is to say, the wealthy immigrant could afford to screen his ‘big house’ with trees while the native Irish were left to farm the barren hillside. So the feelings of the local populace about the planter’s daughter are understandably ambivalent: they expect her to be standoffish, but it appears that she is not, and the men at least are awed by her beauty; the women gossip about her; but neither really know her in her remote and privileged life. In the fine closing image she is likened to Sunday, the day of the week reserved for worship, and thus seen as a being separate from their normal life of toil, and haloed as it were in her apartness.
I suspect myself that this interpretation could be reading too much into a slight if melodious lyric, but it does allow one to see the poem as a celebration of the way in which an appreciation of beauty, and a respect for innate goodness, can transcend even the chasm-wide class and political divisions of Irish society.
The Planter’s Daughter
When night stirred at sea
And the fire brought a crowd in,
They say that her beauty
Was music in mouth
And few in the candlelight
Thought her too proud,
For the house of the planter
Is known by the trees.
Men that had seen her
Drank deep and were silent,
The women were speaking
Wherever she went –
As a bell that is rung
Or a wonder told shyly,
And O she was the Sunday
In every week.
Austin Clarke
David Sutton 
Good grief. I really don’t think that a beautiful poem like this can, or should be analysed to death in such a manner. To me it speaks of the beauty and enchantment of the daughter of the man who plants and looks after the trees. That is why they know where he lives. Sunday always feels different to the other days of the week. I don’t know why but it does. That is why so many songs have been written on the subject. It seems longer and more reflective. Hence, ‘she was the Sunday in every week.’ Enjoy it for what it is and don’t pull it apart to match some, long gone, political nonsense. The men who watch her and dream and the envy of the other women. Fantastic and beautiful. I love it.
Well, yes, I think I agree with you, as indeed I indicate in my closing paragraph. I just had the nagging feeling that there might be more to this poem than a simple melodious lyric, that it posed questions that needed answering. Why would any think her too proud? What did it mean, ‘the house of the planter is known by the trees’. Why were the men silent but the women talking? I had no answers myself so I cast around to see what others thought and found someone else’s rather questionable interpretation which I presented for what it was worth. If people can enjoy the poem without looking for any deeper meaning that might not even be there, then that’s fine.
David, thank you for your response. It always makes me smile when people read, non-existent meaning into artistic works. When ‘The Eagles’ wrote Hotel California they were inundated with theory’s about the hidden meanings. They all laughed and said that it was, ‘just a good song with a good tune.’ Whilst it is inevitable, that some works do possess some hidden or esoteric meaning I feel happier letting this passage flow over me and raise my spirits. Why were the men silent you ask? I am no expert but it strikes me that men have always been shy and reluctant to approach beauty. I always was, most times to my detriment and later regret. The visual medium is also, naturally, favoured by men. We do like to, ‘drink in,’ beauty in silence don’t you think? Why were the women talking? I think that question answers itself. Nobody likes too much competition and the silence of their menfolk spoke volumes to them as she swept, confidently through the company, ‘like a bell that is rung or a wonder told shyly’, what a magnificent picture that conjures up. These sixteen lines of poetry encapsulate a large part of the human condition and place me in the middle of the evening. The atmosphere can be cut with a knife but her beauty trumps all other emotion and commands all attention. I know nothing of poetry David but I do love this prose. It’s been a pleasure speaking with you. Kevin.