This is my own take on the famous Old Irish lament, poignant in its depiction of old age, that I mentioned in a reply to a comment a couple of weeks back. I have not on this occasion included the Irish text because my version is more a distillation than a translation as such, omitting some stanzas and being rather free with others, so it would not contribute much to a word-for-word understanding of the original. More literal translations are available online.

The poem is thought to have been written in the late 8^th or early 9^th century. The Old Woman of Beare was originally an immortal mythological figure, to be equated with the Cailleach, ancestress of races and creator of the landscape, raising mountains and cairns, but by the time of the poem’s composition she has come to be seen simply as a very old woman who has outlived friends and lovers and now consorts with a Christian saint, much as Finn’s son Oisin was seen. It is a pity to lose the  mythological dimension, but on the other hand it does bring the human side into focus, making the old woman the epitome of grandmothers throughout the ages, railing against the ravages of time and deploring the mores of the young while remembering her own colourful past.

Lament of the Old Woman of Beare

(after the Irish)

I who was young am old.
Ebb-tide has come to me.
The days of my life flow outward,
The days of my life like the sea.

I am the Old Woman of Beare.
I used to wear a dress
Brand-new each morning. Now
I walk in nakedness.

When we were young we loved
Men; the girls today
Care for riches more.
The men have passed away.

Swift chariots and steeds
That bore off every prize –
Their day passed long ago.
Every good thing dies.

Look at these arms now.
They used to circle kings.
The bones stick through the flesh.
On them no wedding-rings.

The Stone of the Kings on Femen,
Mighty Ronan’s chair –
Their cheeks of stone are withered.
How shall flesh ones fare?

Femen’s plain I envy.
It has a yellow crop.
My crop is grey: I must
Wear this veil atop.

The waves of the sea are talking,
The wind blows up their spray.
Fermuid who was my darling
Will not come today.

I know where the kings’ sons are.
They rowed across the sea.
Under the reeds of Alma
The lads that lay with me.

The flood-tide and the ebb,
The fluxes of the main,
I have known them all.
They will not come again.

The ebb is with me now.
No second flood will come.
I wait for the winds to be silent,
For the voice of the sea to be dumb.