THE DOGS OF FIONN..." It was a time of trouble-executions,
Death, searches, nightly firing, balked escapes –
And I sat silent while my cellmate figured
Ruy Lopez' Gambit from the 'Praxis'. Silence
Best fitted our mood: we seldom spoke.
'I have a thought,' he said, tilting his stool.
'We prisoners are so many pieces taken,
Swept from the chessboard, only used again
When a new game is started.' 'There's that hope,'
I said, 'the hope of being used again.
Some day of strength, when ploughs are out in March,
The dogs of Fionn will slip their iron chains
And, heedless of torn wounds and failing wind,
Will run the old grey wolf to death at last'.
He smiled, 'I like your image. My fat kings,
And painted Queens, and purple-cassocked Bishops
Are tame, indeed, beside your angry dogs! "
(....taken from here.)
- Written by Joseph Campbell, interned in the Curragh, 1923-24.
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