Fiction writing/Wicklow Games

The Wicklow Games

Not yet (in the early 21st century) as well known as the Olympic Games or as popular as the World Cup, the fame of and interest in The Wicklow Games has sky-rocketed not least due to the incredible popularity of some of the wonderful poetry that has been written to commemorate The First Wicklow Games where a vast throng of Flynns and assorted in-laws and friends met in fierce but (relatively) fair competition.

The Wicklow games
Bodies tired by travel From our far-off foreign lands We did not see the cunning trap That filled our helpless glands With substance that would slow us down In moments critical We thought that “have another” was Addressed by some good pal

So we arrived in Wicklow In good faith and in good cheer Seeing no conspiracy In faces warm and dear We were not disappointed (much) When robbed of the sack race We overlooked deceptions With a certain stoic grace

The egg and spoon went fair and square Until I was knocked down “Accidentally of course” Said culprit with a frown The welly that I threw flew far And certain first place gained The (Wicklow) ref then changed the rules “UNDER the rope” explained

But we persisted knowing that Each dog must have its day That muscles trained by German toil Would surely reward pay We pulled that rope and Efforts moved the watchers to much grief But not an inch could we move that Stud-booted Wicklow beef

I’m not quite sure what trick was used In the wheelbarrow race But I know that we won my leg With elegance and grace But somehow we were led astray Off into bumpy ground So was it really fair and square? We lost the second round

And all the time our “friendly” hosts Would smile and say “more drink” And being polite we’d accept. Result! What do you think? They piled the prizes up but still I will say all in all Although we did not win a prize The crack was had by all

Although we did not win a prize We do not bear a grudge Although some others (rightly??) claim That “certain people” fudged So that they could have their day Their moment in the light The scholars in a thousand years Will read and know what’s right - Lorcan

Jousting
The young man had fought well. That day He strutted like a king. He felt (as feel a fighter must) “I can beat anything Or anybody in the field This log is mine – I’ll never yield.”

He’d started off with Canada A Rocky Mountain son Had travelled far to proved his strength Could better anyone.

Though he’d fought well and sought the crown The maple leaf had fallen down

Then one by one the Southside’s best Had come to knock him off Great Colm of the balding head Had said, “I’ll get this toff”

But he had fallen like the rest Thought all agreed he’d done his best

When Darren of the mighty girth And foreign fighting skill Had superciliously grinned His pride was quickly killed

He tumbled to the Wicklow earth Gazed upward at the great Fionn’s mirth.

When Pol og danced his boxer’s dance Aburst with Tallagh pride He went tumbling off the log. But, at least he tried!

And then he stood to watch and see How he could gain a victory.

Will he ere tire we wondered As another hero fell? Is Fionn the name that history Of this event will tell?

“No I am German – full of might And I will win this very night.”

And watchers gasped as this huge man From Northern Europe’s fog Strode up to Fionn to challenge For possession of The Log

“I am The Maren’s brother:” He cried out in a loud voice “And victory’s a must for me It’s simply not a choice.”

A judge of men and warriors He was in his own land He grasped the jousting weapon. It looked small in his huge hand.

He glared at Fionn and others Would have trembled at that gaze But Fionn just raised his weapon And he smiled - to our amaze

Fionn did not boast as others might He simply smiled and said: “Let’s fight.”

The moments of the duel were short But its effect is long For it will be remembered In all future fighter’s song

The mighty Teuton lost the test He tasted Wicklow grass. Was best!

Loud were the cheers. They echoed All around the Wicklow dell. A hunting hawk looked, hurried home With a new tale to tell

A badger watching from his run Could not recall such a great one.

But then a voice spoke up. Some people laughed. All were surprised. The poet said I will now fight This night beneath these skies

And words will not my weapon be I will fight fair and win. You’ll see.

And yes this mild and modest man Defeated mighty Fionn And thus defeated Wicklow’s pride Defeated everyone.

“But please, do not talk of this night!” He said. “Twas just a pillow fight.” - Lorcan