Chapter VIII: Part 8

Ah, soul of me ofttimes to thee, Land of mystery!
Ofttimes again shall I breathe in thy charmèd air!
Sure, every weary singer knoweth the secret name of thee,
Land of Heart’s Desire!

Enduring thou art! For not the slow frost of the ages
Shall dim from thy past thy glory immortally graven!--
Granite thy soil, thy soul, loved nest of Celtic nations!--
Sings the lost Voice, Taliesin.

By Menec’hi Shore.

[Sidenote: LOUIS TIERCELIN]

Sad the sea-moan that echoes through my dream,
And sad the auroral sky suffused with gold,
Sad the blue wave that croons along the shore--

O Joy of Night in whose still calms I sleep!

Sadness of love, and O tired heart of man:
Sadness of hope, and all brave vows that be:
Sadness of joy itself, the joys we know!

Joy of Oblivion, is there bliss with thee?

Sad is the splendour, glory, the bright flame
And laughter of the soul, since underneath
Dreams and Desires veiled Mystery broods obscure ...

O Joy of Death, with thee the Vials of Peace!

VIII

THE CELTIC FRINGE

Song.

[Sidenote: BLISS CARMAN]

Love, by that loosened hair
Well now I know
Where the lost Lilith went
So long ago.

Love, by those starry eyes
I understand
How the sea-maidens lure
Mortals from land.

Love, by that welling laugh
Joy claims his own
Sea-born and wind-wayward
Child of the sun.

The War-Song of Gamelbar.

Bowmen, shout for Gamelbar!
Winds, unthrottle the wolves of war!
Heave a breath
And dare a death
For the doom of Gamelbar!
Wealth for Gamel,
Wine for Gamel,
Crimson wine for Gamelbar!

Chorus:--Oh, sleep for a knave
With his sins in the sod!
And death for the brave,
With his glory up to God!
And joy for the girl,
And ease for the churl!
But the great game of war
For our lord Gamelbar,
Gamelbar!

Spearmen, shout for Gamelbar,
With his warriors thirty score!
Heave a sword
For our overlord,
Lord of warriors, Gamelbar!
Life for Gamel,
Love for Gamel,
Lady-loves for Gamelbar!

Horsemen, shout for Gamelbar!
Swim the ford and climb the scaur!
Heave a hand
For the maiden land,
The maiden land of Gamelbar!
Glory for Gamel,
Gold for Gamel,
Yellow gold for Gamelbar!

Armourers for Gamelbar,
Rivet and forge and fear no scar!
Heave a hammer
With anvil clamour,
To weld and brace for Gamelbar!
Ring for Gamel,
Rung for Gamel,
=Ring-rung-ring= for Gamelbar!

Yeomen, shout for Gamelbar,
And his battle-hand in war!
Heave his pennon;
Cheer his men on,
In the ranks of Gamelbar!
Strength for Gamel,
Song for Gamel,
One war-song for Gamelbar!

Roncliffe, shout for Gamelbar!
Menthorpe, Bryan, Castelfar!
Heave, Thorparch
Of the Waving Larch,
And Spofford’s thane, for Gamelbar!
Blaise for Gamel,
Brame for Gamel,
Rougharlington for Gamelbar!

Maidens, strew for Gamelbar
Roses down his way to war!
Heave a handful,
Fill the land full
Of your gifts to Gamelbar!
Dream of Gamel,
Dance for Gamel,
Dance in the halls for Gamelbar!

Servitors, shout for Gamelbar!
Roast the ox and stick the boar!
Heave a bone
To gaunt Harone,
The great war-hound of Gamelbar!
Mead for Gamel,
Mirth for Gamel,
Mirth at the board for Gamelbar!

Trumpets, speak for Gamelbar!
Blare as ye never blared before!
Heave a bray
In the horns to-day,
The red war-horns of Gamelbar!
To-night for Gamel,
The North for Gamel,
With fires on the hills for Gamelbar!

Shout for Gamel, Gamelbar,
Till your throats can shout no more!
Heave a cry
As he rideth by,
Sons of Orm, for Gamelbar!
Folk for Gamel,
Fame for Gamel,
Years and fame for Gamelbar!

Chorus:--Oh, sleep for a knave
With his sins in the sod!
And death for the brave,
With his glory up to God!
And joy for the girl,
And ease for the churl!
But the great game of war
For our lord Gamelbar,
Gamelbar!

Golden Rowan.

[Sidenote: BLISS CARMAN]

She lived where the mountains go down to the sea,
And river and tide confer.
Golden Rowan, in Menalowan,
Was the name they gave to her.

She had the soul no circumstance
Can hurry or defer.
Golden Rowan, of Menalowan,
How time stood still for her!

Her playmates for their lovers grew,
But that shy wanderer,
Golden Rowan, of Menalowan,
Knew love was not for her.

Hers was the love of wilding things;
To hear a squirrel chirr
In the golden rowan of Menalowan
Was joy enough for her.

She sleeps on the hill with the lonely sun,
Where in the days that were,
The golden rowan of Menalowan
So often shadowed her.

The scarlet fruit will come to fill,
The scarlet spring to stir
The golden rowan of Menalowan,
And wake no dream for her.

Only the wind is over her grave,
For mourner and comforter;
And “Golden Rowan, of Menalowan,”
Is all we know of her.

A Sea Child.

[Sidenote: BLISS CARMAN]

The lover of child Marjory
Had one white hour of life brim full;
Now the old nurse, the rocking sea,
Hath him to lull.

The daughter of child Marjory
Hath in her veins, to beat and run,
The glad indomitable sea,
The strong white sun.

The Quest.

[Sidenote: ELLEN MACKAY HUTCHINSON]

It was a heavenly time of life
When first I went to Spain,
The lovely lands of silver mists,
The land of golden grain.

My little ship through unknown seas
Sailed many a changing day;
Sometimes the chilling winds came up
And blew across her way.

Sometimes the rain came down and hid
The shining shores of Spain,
The beauty of the silver mists
And of the golden grain.

But through the rains and through the winds,
Upon the untried sea,
My fairy ship sailed on and on,
With all my dreams and me.

And now, no more a child, I long
For that sweet time again,
When on the far horizon bar
Rose up the shores of Spain.

O lovely land of silver mists,
O land of golden grain,
I look for you with smiles, with tears,
But look for you in vain!

Moth-Song.

What dost thou here,
Thou dusky courtier,
Within the pinky palace of the rose?
Here is no bed for thee,
No honeyed spicery,--
But for the golden bee,
And the gay wind, and me
Its sweetness grows.
Rover, thou dost forget;--
Seek thou the passion-flower
Bloom of one twilight hour.
Haste, thou art late!
Its hidden savours wait.
For thee is spread
Its soft, purple coverlet;
Moth, art thou sped?
--Dim as a ghost he flies
Through the night mysteries.

June.

[Sidenote: ELLEN MACKAY HUTCHINSON]

Of silvery-shining rains
And noonday golds and shadows
June weaves wild-daisy chains
For happy meadows.

She stoops to set the stream
With scented alder-bushes,
And with the rainbow gleam
Of iris ’mid the rushes,
She scatters eglantine
And scarlet columbine.

Ah, June, my lovely lass,--
Sweetheart, dost thou not see
I stay to watch thee pass--
What hast thou brought to me?

Thy mystic ministries
Of glorious far skies,
Thy wild-rose sermons, Sweet,
Like dreams profound and fleet,
Thy woodland harmony
Thou givest me.

The vision that can see,
The loving will to learn,
How fair thy skies may be,
What in thy roses burn,
Thy secret harmonies,--
Ah, give me these!

Scent o’ Pines.

[Sidenote: HUGH M‘CULLOCH]

Love, shall I liken thee unto the rose
That is so sweet?
Nay, since for a single day she grows,
Then scattered lies upon the garden-rows
Beneath our feet.

But to the perfume shed when forests nod,
When noonday shines,
That lulls us as we tread the woodland sod,
Eternal as the peace of God
The scent o’ pines.

The Reed-Player.

[Sidenote: DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT]

By a dim shore where water darkening
Took the last light of spring,
I went beyond the tumult, harkening
For some diviner thing.

Where the bats flew from the black elms like leaves,
Over the ebon pool
Brooded the bittern’s cry, as one that grieves
Lands ancient, bountiful.

I saw the fire-flies shine below the wood,
Above the shallows dank,
As Uriel, from some great altitude,
The planets rank on rank.

And now unseen along the shrouded mead
One went under the hill;
He blew a cadence on his mellow reed,
That trembled and was still.

It seemed as if a line of amber fire
Had shot the gathered dusk,
As if had blown a wind from ancient Tyre
Laden with myrrh and musk.

He gave his luring note amid the fern;
Its enigmatic fall
Haunted the hollow dusk with golden turn
And argent interval.

I could not know the message that he bore,
The springs of life from me
Hidden; his incommunicable lore
As much a mystery.

And as I followed far the magic player
He passed the maple wood;
And, when I passed, the stars had risen there,
And there was solitude.

The Celtic Cross.

[Sidenote: THOMAS D’ARCY M‘CGEE]

Through storm and fire and gloom, I see it stand
Firm, broad, and tall,
The Celtic Cross that marks our Fatherland,
Amid them all!
Druids and Danes and Saxons vainly rage
Around its base;
It standeth shock on shock, and age on age,
Star of our scatter’d race.

O Holy Cross! dear symbol of the dread
Death of our Lord,
Around thee long have slept our martyr dead
Sward over sward.
An hundred bishops I myself can count
Among the slain:
Chiefs, captains, rank and file, a shining mount
Of God’s ripe grain.

The monarch’s mace, the Puritan’s claymore,
Smote thee not down;
On headland steep, on mountain summit hoar,
In mart and town,
In Glendalough, in Ara, in Tyrone,
We find thee still,
Thy open arms still stretching to thine own,
O’er town and lough and hill.

And would they tear thee out of Irish soil,
The guilty fools!
How time must mock their antiquated toil
And broken tools!
Cranmer and Cromwell from thy grasp retir’d,
Baffled and thrown;
William and Anne to sap thy site conspir’d,--
The rest is known.

[Sidenote: THOMAS D’ARCY M‘CGEE]

Holy Saint Patrick, father of our faith,
Belov’d of God!
Shield thy dear Church from the impending scaith,
Or, if the rod
Must scourge it yet again, inspire and raise
To emprise high
Men like the heroic race of other days,
Who joyed to die.

Fear! wherefore should the Celtic people fear
Their Church’s fate?
The day is not--the day was never near--
Could desolate
The Destin’d Island, all whose clay
Is holy ground:
Its Cross shall stand till that predestin’d day
When Erin’s self is drown’d.

The Tryst of the Night.

[Sidenote: MARY C. G. BYRON

(M. C. Gillington)]

Out of the uttermost ridge of dusk, where the dark and
the day are mingled,
The voice of the Night rose cold and calm--it called through
the shadow-swept air;
Through all the valleys and lone hillsides, it pierced, it
thrilled, it tingled--
It summoned me forth to the wild sea-shore, to meet with its
mystery there.

Out of the deep ineffable blue, with palpitant swift repeating
Of gleam and glitter and opaline glow, that broke in ripples of light--
In burning glory it came and went,--I heard, I saw it beating,
Pulse by pulse, from star to star,--the passionate heart of the Night!

Out of the thud of the rustling sea--the panting, yearning, throbbing
Waves that stole on the startled shore, with coo and mutter of spray--
The wail of the Night came fitful-faint,--I heard her stifled sobbing:
The cold salt drops fell slowly, slowly, gray into gulfs of gray.

There through the darkness the great world reeled, and the great
tides roared, assembling--
Murmuring hidden things that are past, and secret things that shall be;
There at the limits of life we met, and touched with a
rapturous trembling--
One with each other, I and the Night, and the skies, and
the stars, and sea.

The Doom-Bar.

[Sidenote: ALICE E. GILLINGTON]

O d’you hear the seas complainin’, and complainin’, whilst it’s rainin’?
Did you hear it mourn in the dimorts,[33] when the surf
woke up and sighed?
The choughs screamed on the sand,
And the foam flew over land,
And the seas rolled dark on the Doom-Bar at rising of the tide.

I gave my lad a token, when he left me nigh heartbroken,
To mind him of old Padstow town, where loving souls abide;
’Twas a ring with the words set
All round, “Can Love Forget?”
And I watched his vessel toss on the Bar with the outward-turning tide.

D’you hear the seas complainin’, and complainin’, while it’s rainin’?
And his vessel has never crossed the Bar from the purple seas outside;
And down the shell-pink sands,
Where we once went, holding hands,
Alone I watch the Doom-Bar and the rising of the tide.

One day--’twas four years after--the harbour-girls, with laughter
So soft and wild as sea-gulls when they’re playing seek-and-hide,
Coaxed me out--for the tides were lower
Than had ever been known before;
And we ran across the Doom-Bar, all white and shining wide.

I saw a something shinin’, where the long, wet weeds were twinin’
Around a rosy scallop; and a gold ring lay inside;
And around its rim were set
The words “Can Love Forget?”--
And there upon the Doom-Bar I knelt and sobbed and cried.

I took my ring and smoothed it where the sand and shells had grooved it;
But O! St Petrock bells will never ring me home a bride!--
For the night my lad was leavin’
Me, all tearful-eyed and grievin’,
He had tossed my keepsake out on the Bar to the rise and fall of the tide!

D’you hear the seas complainin’, and complainin’, while it’s rainin’?
Did you hear them call in the dimorts, when the surf woke up and sighed?
Maybe it is a token
I shall go no more heart-broken--
And I shall cross the Doom-Bar at the turning of the tide.

The Seven Whistlers.

[Sidenote: ALICE E. GILLINGTON]

Whistling strangely, whistling sadly, whistling sweet and clear,
The Seven Whistlers have passed thy house, Pentruan of Porthmeor;
It was not in the morning, nor the noonday’s golden grace,
It was in the dead waste midnight, when the tide yelped loud in the Race:
The tide swings round in the Race, and they’re plaining whisht and low,
And they come from the gray sea-marshes, where the gray
sea-lavenders grow,
And the cotton-grass sways to and fro;
And the gore-sprent sundews thrive
With oozy hands alive.
Canst hear the curlews’ whistle through thy dreamings dark and drear,
How they’re crying, crying, crying, Pentruan of Porthmeor?

Shall thy hatchment, mouldering grimly in yon church amid the sands,
Stay trouble from thy household? Or the carven cherub-hands
Which hold thy shield to the font? Or the gauntlets on the wall
Keep evil from its onward course as the great tides rise and fall?
The great tides rise and fall, and the cave sucks in the breath
Of the wave when it runs with tossing spray, and the ground-sea
rattles of Death;
“I rise in the shallows,” ’a saith,
“Where the mermaid’s kettle sings,
And the black shag flaps his wings!”
Ay, the green sea-mountain leaping may lead horror in its rear,
When thy drenched sail leans to its yawning trough, Pentruan of Porthmeor!

Yet the stoup waits at thy doorway for its load of glittering ore,
And thy ships lie in the tideway, and thy flocks along the moor;
And thine arishes gleam softly when the October moonbeams wane,
When in the bay all shining the fishers set the seine;
The fishers cast the seine, and ’tis “Heva!” in the town,
And from the watch-rock on the hill the huers are shouting down;
And ye hoist the mainsail brown,
As over the deep-sea roll
The lurker follows the shoal;
To follow and to follow, in the moonshine silver-clear,
When the halyards creek to thy dipping sail, Pentruan of Porthmeor!

And wailing, and complaining, and whistling whisht and clear,
The Seven Whistlers have passed thy house, Pentruan of Porthmeor!
It was not in the morning, nor the noonday’s golden grace,--
It was in the fearsome midnight, when the tide-dogs yelped in the Race:
--The tide swings round in the Race, and they’re whistling whisht and low,
And they come from the lonely heather, where the fur-edged foxgloves blow,
And the moor-grass sways to and fro,
Where the yellow moor-birds sigh,
And the sea-cooled wind sweeps by.
Canst hear the curlews’ whistle through the darkness wild and drear,--
How they’re calling, calling, calling Pentruan of Porthmeor?

Requiem.

[Sidenote: SHANE LESLIE]

In sweet Irish clay may I lie
Heart clasped to my race,
O brothers and sisters of mine,
Give me your space.
For mine was the life that you lived,
The fight that you fought,
And bright in the gloom of mine own
Were deeds you had wrought.
So let the dear dust of your head
Drift over my face,
And this be the dirge that you sing
And song that you trace.
A pebble is thrown to the beach
From whence it was brought,
A leaf has dropped weary for rest
To those it had sought.

An Old Woman of the Roads.

(“Wild Earth and other Poems.” Macmillan.)

[Sidenote: PADRAIC COLUM]

O, to have a little house!
To own the hearth and stool and all!
The heaped-up sods upon the fire,
The pile of turf against the wall!

To have a clock with weights and chains
And pendulum swinging up and down!
A dresser filled with shining delph,
Speckled and white and blue and brown!

I could be busy all the day
Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor,
And fixing on their shelf again
My white and blue and speckled store!

I could be quiet there at night
Beside the fire and by myself,
Sure of a bed, and loath to leave
The ticking clock and the shining delph!

Och! but I’m weary of mist and dark,
And roads where there’s never a house or bush,
And tired I am of bog and road,
And the crying wind and the lonesome hush!

And I am praying to God on high,
And I am praying Him night and day,
For a little house--a house of my own--
Out of the wind’s and the rain’s way.

A Cradle Song.

(“Wild Earth and other Poems.” Macmillan.)

[Sidenote: PADRAIC COLUM]

O, men from the fields!
Come softly within.
Tread softly, softly,
O men coming in.

Mavourneen is going
From me and from you,
Where Mary will fold him
With mantle of blue

From reek of the smoke
And cold of the floor,
And peering of things
Across the half-door.

O men from the fields!
Soft, softly come thro’.
Mary puts round him
Her mantle of blue.

The Coolun.

(“Reincarnations.” Macmillan.)

[Sidenote: ELEANOR HULL]

Come with me, under my coat,
And we will drink our fill
Of the milk of the white goat,
Or wine if it be thy will;
And we will talk until
Talk is a trouble, too,
Out on the side of the hill,
And nothing is left to do,
But an eye to look into an eye
And a hand in a hand to slip,
And a sigh to answer a sigh,
And a lip to find out a lip:
What if the night be black
And the air on the mountain chill,
Where the goat lies down in her track
And all but the fern is still!
Stay with me under my coat,
And we will drink our fill
Of the milk of the white goat
Out on the side of the hill.

The Clouds.

(“Songs from the Clay.” Macmillan.)

[Sidenote: JAMES STEPHENS]

I stood and looked around where, far and nigh,
The heather bloom was swaying in the air,
The clouds chased one another down the sky
Beyond my sight, and everywhere
The birds flew through the sunshine, where they sang
So loud, so clear, so sweet, the heavens rang
Of lark and thrush and stare.

I never heard a melody so sweet
As I heard then; I never knew a day
So filled with sunshine; never saw the fleet
And tinted clouds so high and free and gay;
Each danced to the horizon like a boy
Let out from school, each tumbled in its joy
And ran away.

The Old Woman of Beare.

(“The Poem Book of the Gael.” Chatto & Windus.)

[Sidenote: ELEANOR HULL]

Ebb tide to me!
My life drifts downward with the drifting sea;
Old age has caught and compassed me about,
The tides of time run out.

The “Hag of Beare!”
’Tis thus I hear the young girls jeer and mock;
Yet I, who in these cast-off clouts appear,
Once donned a queenly smock.

Ye love but self,
Ye churls! to-day ye worship pelf!
But in the days I lived we sought for men,
We loved our lovers then!

Ah! swiftly when
Their splendid chariots coursed upon the plain,
I checked their pace, for me they flew amain,
Held in by curb and rein.

I envy not the old,
Whom gold adorns, whom richest robes enfold,
But ah! the girls, who pass my cell at morn,
While I am shorn!

On sweet May-morn
Their ringing laughter on the breeze is borne,
While I, who shake with ague and with age,
In Litanies engage.

Amen! and woe is me!
I lie here rotting like a broken tree;
Each acorn has its day and needs must fall,
Time makes an end of all!

[Sidenote: ELEANOR HULL]

I had my day with kings!
We drank the brimming mead, the ruddy wine,
Where now I drink whey-water; for company more fine
Than shrivelled hags, hag though I am, I pine.

The flood-tide thine!
Mine but the low down-curling ebb-tide’s flow,
My youth, my hope, are carried from my hand,
Thy flood-tide foams to land.

My body drops
Slowly but sure towards the abode we know;
When God’s High Son takes from me all my props
It will be time to go!

Bony my arms and bare
Could you but see them ’neath the mantle’s flap.
Wizened and worn, that once were round and fair,
When kings lay in my lap.

’Tis, “O my God” with me,
Many prayers said, yet more prayers left undone;
If I could spread my garment in the sun
I’d say them, every one.

The sea-wave talks,
Athwart the frozen earth grim winter stalks;
Young Fermod, son of Mugh, ne’er said me nay,
Yet he comes not to-day.

How still they row,
Oar dipped by oar the wavering reeds among,
To Alma’s shore they press, a ghostly throng,
Deeply they sleep and long.

No lightsome laugh
Disturbs my fireside’s stillness; shadows fall,
And quiet forms are gathering round my hearth,
Yet lies the hand of silence on them all.

I do not deem it ill
That a nun’s veil should rest upon my head;
But finer far my feast-robe’s various hue
To me, when all is said.

My very cloak grows old;
Grey its tint, its woof is frayed and thin;
I seem to feel grey hairs within its fold,
Or are they on my skin?

O happy Isle of Ocean,
Thy flood-tide leaps to meet eddying wave
Lifting it up and onward. Till the grave
The sea-wave comes not after ebb for me.

I find them not
Those sunny sands I knew so well of yore;
Only the surf’s sad roar sounds up to me,
My tide will turn no more.

From a “Litany of Beauty.”

[Sidenote: THOMAS MACDONAGH]

O shapely Flower that must for aye endure!
O Voice of God that every heart must hear!
O Hymn of purest souls that dost unsphere
The ravished soul that lists! O white, white Gem!
O Rose that dost the senses drown in bliss!
No thing can stay, no thing can stem,
No thing can lure the heart to miss
Thy love, thy joy, thy rapture divine--
O Beauty, Beauty, ever thine
The soul, the heart, the brain,
To hymn thee in a loud perpetual strain,
Shriller and sweeter than song of wine,
Than lay of sorrow or love or war--
Beauty of heaven and sun and day,
Beauty of water and frost and star,
Beauty of dusk-tide, narrowing, grey ...
Beauty of silver light,
Beauty of purple night,
Beauty of solemn breath,
Beauty of closed eye, and sleep, and death ...
Beauty of dawn and dew,
Beauty of morning peace
Ever ancient and ever new,
Ever renewed till waking cease
Or sleep forever, when loud the angel’s word
Through all the world is heard ...
Beauty of brute and bird,
Beauty of earthly creatures
Whose hearts by the hand of God are stirred ...
Beauty of the soul,
Beauty informing forms and features,
Fairest to God’s eye,
Beauty that cannot fade or die
Till eternal atoms to ruin roll!

(By permission of The Talbot Press, Dublin.)

Beauty of blinded Trust,
Led by the hand of God
To a heaven where cherub hath never trod.
Austere Beauty of Truth,
Lighting the way of the Just ...
Splendid Beauty of Youth,
Staying when Youth is fled,
Living when Life is dead,
Burning in funeral dust!

The glory of form doth pale and pall,
Beauty endures to the end of all.

I will go with my Father a-ploughing.

[Sidenote: SEOSAMH MACCATHMHAOIL]

I will go with my father a-ploughing
To the green field by the sea,
And the rooks and the crows and the seagulls
Will come flocking after me.
I will sing to the patient horses
With the lark in the white of the air,
And my father will sing the plough-song
That blesses the cleaving share.

I will go with my father a-sowing
To the red field by the sea,
And the rooks and the gulls and the starlings
Will come flocking after me.
I will sing to the striding sowers
With the finch on the flowering sloe,
And my father will sing the seed-song
That only the wise men know.

I will go with my father a-reaping
To the brown field by the sea,
And the geese and the crows and the children
Will come flocking after me.
I will sing to the weary reapers
With the wren in the heat of the sun,
And my father will sing the scythe-song
That joys for the harvest done.

A Northern Love Song.

[Sidenote: SEOSAMH MACCATHMHAOIL]

Brighidín Bhán of the lint-white locks,
What was it gave you that flaxen hair,
Long as the summer heath in the rocks?
What was it gave you those eyes of fire,
Lip so waxen and cheek so wan?
Tell me, tell me, Brighidín Bhán,
Little white bride of my heart’s desire.

Was it the Good People stole you away,
Little white changeling, Brighidín Bhán?
Carried you off in the ring of the dawn,
Laid like a queen on her purple car,
Carried you back between night and day;
Gave you that fortune of flaxen hair,
Gave you those eyes of wandering fire,
Lit at the wheel of the northern star?
Gave you that look so far away?
Tell me, tell me, Brighidín Bhán,
Little white bride of my heart’s desire.

Fairy Workers.

(“Songs of Donegal.” Herbert Jenkins.)

[Sidenote: PATRICK MACGILL]

Said the Fairies of Kilfinnan
To the Fairies of Macroom:
“Oh! send to us a shuttle
For our little fairy loom.
Our workers, one and twenty,
Are waiting in the Coom----”
So Kilfinnan got a shuttle
From the Fairies of Macroom.

Kilfinnan got the shuttle,
The shuttle for the loom.
“Now, send us back a hammer,”
Said the Fairies of Macroom.
“We’ve cobblers, one and twenty,
All idle in their room.”
And Kilfinnan sent a hammer
To the Fairies of Macroom.

The Queen of all the Fairies
Sat in her drawing-room:
Her robes came from Kilfinnan,
Her brogues came from Macroom.
Now, at the Royal Dinner
The proudest in the room
Were the Fairies from Kilfinnan
And the Fairies from Macroom.

The Shadow People.

(“Complete Poems.” Published by Herbert Jenkins.)

[Sidenote: FRANCIS LEDWIDGE]

Old lame Bridget doesn’t hear
Fairy music in the grass
When the gloaming’s on the mere
And the shadow people pass:
Never hears their slow grey feet
Coming from the village street
Just beyond the parson’s wall,
Where the clover globes are sweet
And the mushroom’s parasol
Opens in the moonlit rain.
Every night I hear them call
From their long and merry train.
Old lame Bridget says to me,
“It is just your fancy, child.”
She cannot believe I see
Laughing faces in the wild,
Hands that twinkle in the sedge
Bowing at the water’s edge
Where the finny minnows quiver,
Shaping on a blue wave’s ledge
Bubble foam to sail the river.
And the sunny hands to me
Beckon ever, beckon ever.
Oh! I would be wild and free,
And with the shadow people be.

My Mother.

(“Complete Poems.” Published by Herbert Jenkins.)

[Sidenote: FRANCIS LEDWIDGE]

God made my mother on an April day,
From sorrow and the mist along the sea,
Lost birds’ and wanderers’ songs and ocean spray,
And the moon loved her wandering jealously.

Beside the ocean’s din she combed her hair,
Singing the nocturne of the passing ships,
Before her earthly lover found her there
And kissed away the music from her lips.

She came unto the hills and saw the change
That brings the swallow and the geese in turns.
But there was not a grief she deeméd strange,
For there is that in her which always mourns.

Kind heart she has for all on hill or wave
Whose hopes grew wings like ants to fly away.
I bless the God Who such a mother gave
This poor bird-hearted singer of a day.

Lyric from “The Crier by Night.”

(“King Lear’s Wife and other Plays.” Published by Constable.)

[Sidenote: GORDON BOTTOMLEY]

The bird in my heart’s a-calling through a far-fled, tear-grey sea
To the soft slow hills that cherish dim waters weary for me,
Where the folk of rath and dun trail homeward silently
In the mist of the early night-fall that drips from their hair like rain.

The bird in my heart’s a-flutter, for the bitter wind of the sea
Shivers with thyme and woodbine as my body with memory;
I feel their perfumes ooze in my ears like melody--
The scent of the mead at the harping I shall not hear again.

The bird in my heart’s a-sinking to a hushed vale hid in the sea,
Where the moonlit dew o’er dead fighters is stirred by the feet
of the Shee,
Who are lovely and old as the earth but younger than I an be
Who have known the forgetting of dying to a life one lonely pain.

The Quest.

(Dublin University Press.)

They said: “She dwelleth in some place apart,
Immortal Truth, within whose eyes
Who looks may find the secret of the skies
And healing for life’s smart.”

I sought Her in loud caverns underground--
On heights where lightnings flashed and fell;
I scaled high Heaven; I stormed the gates of Hell,
But Her I never found.

Till thro’ the tumults of my Quest I caught
A whisper: “Here, within thy heart,
I dwell; for I am thou: behold thou art
The Seeker--and the Sought.”

The Fool.

[Sidenote: PADRAIC H. PEARSE]

Since the wise men have not spoken, I speak that am only a fool;
A fool that hath loved his folly,
Yea, more than the wise men their books or their counting houses,
or their quiet homes,
Or their fame in men’s mouths;
A fool that in all his days hath done never a prudent thing,
Never hath counted the cost, nor recked if another reaped
The fruit of his mighty sowing, content to scatter the seed;
A fool that is unrepentant, and that soon at the end of all
Shall laugh in his lonely heart as the ripe ears fall to the reaping-hooks
And the poor are filled that were empty,
Tho’ he go hungry.

I have squandered the splendid years that the Lord God gave to my youth
In attempting impossible things, deeming them alone worth the toil.
Was it folly or grace? Not men shall judge me, but God.

I have squandered the splendid years:
Lord, if I had the years I would squander them over again,
Aye, fling them from me!
For this I have heard in my heart, that a man shall scatter, not hoard,
Shall do the deed of to-day, nor take thought of to-morrow’s teen,
Shall not bargain or huxter with God; or was it a jest of Christ’s
And is this my sin before men, to have taken Him at His word?

The lawyers have sat in council, the men with the keen, long faces,

[Sidenote: PADRAIC H. PEARSE]

And said, “This man is a fool,” and others have said, “He blasphemeth”;
And the wise have pitied the fool that hath striven to give a life
In the world of time and space among the bulks of actual things,
To a dream that was dreamed in the heart, and that only the heart
could hold.

O wise men, riddle me this: what if the dream come true?
What if the dream come true? and if millions unborn shall dwell
In the house that I shaped in my heart, the noble house of my thought?
Lord, I have staked my soul, I have staked the lives of my kin
On the truth of Thy dreadful word. Do not remember my failures,
But remember this my faith.

And so I speak.
Yea, ere my hot youth pass, I speak to my people and say:
Ye shall be foolish as I; ye shall scatter, not save;
Ye shall venture your all, lest ye lose what is more than all;
Ye shall call for a miracle, taking Christ at His word.
And for this I will answer, O people, answer here and hereafter,
O people that I have loved, shall we not answer together?

(By permission of Messrs. Maunsel & Roberts, Dublin.)

The Return of Song.

[Sidenote: LORD DUNSANY]

“The swans are singing again,” said to one another the gods. And looking downwards, for my dreams had taken me to some fair and far Valhalla, I saw below me an iridescent bubble not greatly larger than a star shine beautifully but faintly, and up and up from it looking larger and larger came a flock of white, innumerable swans, singing and singing and singing, till it seemed as though even the gods were wild ships swimming in music.

“What is it?” I said to one that was humble among the gods.

“Only a world has ended,” he said to me, “and the swans are coming back to the gods returning the gift of song.”

“A whole world dead!” I said.

“Dead,” said he that was humble among the gods. “The worlds are not for ever; only song is immortal.”

“Look! look!” he said. “There will be a new one soon.”

And I looked and saw the larks, going down from the gods.

Dance to your Shadow.

[Sidenote: KENNETH MACLEOD]

Dance to your shadow when it’s good to be living, lad,
Dance to your shadow when there’s nothing better near you.
Dance to your shadow when it’s fine to be living, lad,
Dance to your shadow when there’s nothing better near you.
Ho ro haradal, hind[34] ye haradal,
Ho ro haradal, hind ye han dan.

Dance to your shadow when it’s hard to be living, lad,
Dance to your shadow when there’s nothing better near you.
Dance to your shadow when it’s sore to be living, lad,
Dance to your shadow when there’s nothing better near you.
Ho ro haradal, etc.

Dance to your shadow, letting Fate to her fiddle, lad,
Dance to your shadow when there’s nothing better near you.
Dance to your shadow, for it’s fine to be living, lad,
Dance to your shadow when there’s nothing better near you.
Ho ro haradal, etc.

Sea Longing.

Sore sea-longing in my heart,
Blue deep Barra waves are calling,
Sore sea-longing in my heart.
Glides the sun, but ah! how slowly,
Far away to luring seas!
Sore sea-longing in my heart,
Blue deep Barra waves are calling,
Sore sea-longing in my heart.
Hear’st, O Sun, the roll of waters,
Breaking, calling by yon Isle?
Sore sea-longing in my heart,
Blue deep Barra waves are calling,
Sore sea-longing in my heart.
Sun on high, ere falls the gloamin’,
Heart to heart, thou’lt greet yon waves.
Mary Mother, how I yearn,
Blue deep Barra waves are calling,
Mary Mother, how I yearn.

The Reiving Ship.

[Sidenote: KENNETH MACLEOD]

A ho hi! hirrum bo!
Early sails she to the reiving,
A ho hi! Hirrum bo!
Flashing by the frowning headlands.
A ho hi! Hirrum bo!
Early sails she to the reiving.

A ho hi! Hirrum bo!
Grinds beneath her, gray-blue limpets,
A ho hi! hirrum bo!
Crunches curving whelks to sand-drift.
A ho hi! hirrum bo!
Early sails she to the reiving.

Sweeps she gaily[35]Moola’s waters, Kyles and Moyles to fair green Isla,
Leaps her way to Isles of daring, gleaming Isles of blades and laughter.
A ho hi! hirrum bo!
Early sails she to the reiving.

Land of Heart’s Desire.

[Sidenote: MARJORY KENNEDY-FRASER]

Land of Heart’s Desire, Isle of Youth,
Dear Western Isle, gleaming in sunlight!
Land of Heart’s Desire, Isle of Youth!

Far the cloudless sky stretches blue
Across the isle, green in the sunlight,--
Far the cloudless sky stretches blue.

There shall thou and I wander free,
On sheen-white sands, dreaming in starlight.
Land of Heart’s Desire, Isle of Youth!

Ossian’s Midsummer Day-Dream.

“Sleeps the noon in the deep blue sky.”

(After Thos. Pattison’s translation from Ossian--“The sweet voice of Cona.”)

[Sidenote: MARJORY KENNEDY-FRASER]

Sleeps the noon in the deep blue sky,
While bright the sun shines on Cona’s steep.
Sweet sounds the note of the lonely heron,
Sleeps the noon in the deep blue sky.

Bright the sun shines on Cona’s steep,
While hounds for chase all on fire are straining.
Their deep-mouthed bay sweet as bardic music,
Sleeps the noon in the deep blue sky.

Sweet the winds softly murmuring,
Of eagle sweet is the far-heard cry.
As sails she o’er Morven’s mighty sea-board,
Sleeps the noon in the deep blue sky.

Kishmul’s Galley.

[Sidenote: MARJORY KENNEDY-FRASER]

High from the Ben a Hayich
On a day of days
Seaward I gaz’d,
Watching Kishmul’s galley sailing.
O hio huo faluo!

Homeward she bravely battles
’Gainst the hurtling waves
Nor hoop nor yards,
Anchor, cable, nor tackle has she.
O hio huo faluo!

Now at last ’gainst wind and tide
They’ve brought her to
’Neath Kishmul’s walls,
Kishmul Castle our ancient glory.
O hio huo faluo!

Here’s red wine and feast for heroes
And harping too,
O hio hu!
Sweet harping too!
O hio huo faluo!

Aignish on the Machair.

[Sidenote: AGNES MURE MACKENZIE]

When day and night are over,
And the World is done with me,
Oh carry me West and lay me
In Aignish by the Sea.

And never heed me lying
Among the ancient dead,
Beside the white sea breakers
And sand-drift overhead.

The grey gulls wheeling ever,
And the wide arch of sky,
On Aignish on the Machair,
And quiet there to lie.

Fingal’s Weeping.

[Sidenote: NEIL MUNRO]

Because they were so brave and young
Who now are sleeping,
His old heart wrung, his harp unstrung,
Fingal’s a-weeping.

There’s warble of waters at morning in Etive glen,
And the mists are flying;
Chuckle of Spring in the wood, on the moor, on the ben,
No heed for their dying!
So Fingal’s weeping the young brave sleeping,
Fingal’s weeping.

They’ll be forgot in Time,--forgot!
Time that goes sweeping;
The wars they fought remembered not,
And Fingal’s weeping.

Hearken for voices of sorrow for them in the forest den
Where once they were rovers--
Only the birds of the wild at their building again,
Whispering of lovers!
So Fingal’s weeping, his old grief keeping,
Fingal’s weeping.

They should be mourned by the ocean wave
Round lone isles creeping,
But the laughing wave laments no grave,
And Fingal’s weeping.

Morven and Moidart, glad, gallant and gay in the sun,
Rue naught departed;
The moon and the stars shine out when the day is done,
Cold, stony-hearted,
And Fingal’s weeping war’s red reaping,
Fingal’s weeping!

NOTES

ANCIENT IRISH AND SCOTTISH

THE MYSTERY OF AMERGIN. PAGE 3

Of this strange pantheistical fragment, Dr Douglas Hyde writes:--“The first poem written in Ireland is said to have been the work of Amergin, who was brother of Evir, Ir, and Eremon, the first Milesian princes who colonised Ireland many hundred of years before Christ. The three short pieces of verse ascribed to Amergin are certainly very ancient and very strange. But, as the whole story of the Milesian invasion is wrapped in mystery and is quite possibly only a rationalised account of early Irish mythology (in which the Tuatha De Danann, Firbolgs, and possibly Milesians, are nothing but the gods of the early Irish euhemerised into men), no faith can be placed in the alleged date or genuineness of Amergin’s verses. They are, however, of interest, because as Irish tradition has always represented them as being the first verses made in Ireland, so it may very well be that they actually do present the oldest surviving lines in any vernacular tongue in Europe except Greek.”

THE SONG OF FIONN. PAGE 4

“The Song of Finn MacCool, composed after his eating of the Salmon of Knowledge.” This, if not the earliest, is almost the earliest authentic fragment of Erse poetry. The translation is after O’Donovan and Dr Douglas Hyde.

CREDHE’S LAMENT. PAGE 5

From _The Colloquy of the Ancients_ (called also “The Dialogue of the Sages,” and by other analogues), translated by Standish Hayes O’Grady (_vide_ _The Book of Lismore_; _Silva Gadelica_; etc.). See specific mention in Introduction.

CUCHULLIN IN HIS CHARIOT. PAGE 6

(_Source_: Hector MacLean’s _Ultonian Hero Ballads_. See Introduction.)

DEIRDRE’S LAMENT FOR THE SONS OF USNACH. PAGE 8

Of the many Irish-Gaelic and Scottish-Gaelic and English translations and paraphrases, I have selected the rendering of Sir Samuel Ferguson. The original Erse is of unknown antiquity. (See Introduction.)

THE LAMENT OF QUEEN MAEV. PAGE 10

This admirable translation is by Mr T. W. Rolleston (_vide_ Note to p. 166), after the original in _The Book of Leinster_.

THE MARCH OF THE FAERIE HOST. PAGE 12

This striking poem is given as translated by Professor Kuno Meyer. It and other verses are to be found, in the original, in _The Book of Lismore_ (15th century). The particular narrative therein deals with the visit of Laegaire mac Crimthainn to the land of Faerie. The episodic portion of this narrative has been translated and edited by Mr Standish Hayes O’Grady (see _Silva Gadelica_); but the general reader may be more interested in the brief and lucid commentary of Professor Kuno Meyer (see _The Voyage of Bran_--with Essay on the Celtic Elysium, by Mr Alfred Nutt--recently published by D. Nutt). Professor Meyer considers this and the other verses of “Laegaire mac Crimthainn” to be as old as the 10th century period. “The Faerie Host,” as here given, is fragmentary, being part of an episode; but I have further curtailed it by three lines, for the sake of effect and unity of impression. The other three lines are--

“At all times melodious are they, Quick-witted in song-making, Skilled at playing _fiachell_.”

VISION OF A FAIR WOMAN. PAGE 13

This characteristic Scoto-Celtic poem is supposed by some scholars to be very ancient. The Gaelic version permits of some doubt on the conjecture, but the text is not in this instance conclusive. The “Aisling” will be found in Smith’s _Collection of Ancient Poems, from the Gaelic of Ossian, Ullin, Orran, and others_ (1780)--the reputed originals of which were published in 1787. See, for easier reference, Nigel MacNeil’s _Literature of the Highlanders_, p. 218.

THE FIAN BANNERS. PAGE 14

This paraphrase of an ancient poem is modern. The original is supposed to relate to the Scoto-Celtic and Viking wars of the 11th century. (See Nigel MacNeil’s _Literature of the Highlanders_, p. 117.)

THE RUNE OF ST PATRICK (“THE FAEDH; OR, THE CRY OF THE DEER”). PAGE 17

This translation of the “Faedh,” from _The Book of Hymns_ (11th century), is by Charles Mangan.

COLUMCILLE CECENIT. PAGE 18

The version of Colum’s Hymn here given is the translation of Dr Douglas Hyde, himself a poet, and one of the foremost living Irish folk-lorists. All students of Celtic literature should see his fascinating volume of metrical renderings of the old Erse, _The Three Sorrows of Story-Telling_. (_Vide_ Notes to p. 126.)

COLUMCILLE FECIT. PAGE 20

This well-known poem is given as translated by Michael O’Curry, from an Irish MS. in the Burgundian Library of Brussels.

THE SONG OF MURDOCH THE MONK. PAGE 22

This “Monastic Shaving Song” is the version of Professor Blackie, as translated from _Bishop Ewing’s Book_.

DOMHNULL MAC FHIONNLAIDH. “THE AGED BARD’S WISH.” PAGE 23

Although this undoubtedly old Gaelic poem is attributed by its translators, Charles Edward Stuart and John Sobieski, to the early bard Domhnull Mac Fhionnlaidh, there is no certainty (as they admit) either as to authorship or date. This version is taken from _Ballads and Songs_ by Charles Edward Stuart and John Sobieski.

“OSSIAN SANG.” PAGE 28

The original was jotted down in phonetic Gaelic by Dean Macgregor some 380 years ago.

FINGAL AND ROS-CRANA. PAGE 29

This is not part of the text of Macpherson’s _Ossian_ though the Englishing is by Macpherson, who attributes the original to Colgan, an ancient Scoto-Irish bard. It will be found in the Notes to _Temora_. (See Introduction.)

THE NIGHT-SONG OF THE BARDS. PAGE 31

Macpherson “translated” this, he avers, from an old Gaelic original. His version is to be found in the Notes to _Croma_.

OSSIAN. “COMALA.” PAGE 35

I have selected this short poem as representative of the semi-mythical Ossian of Macpherson. It is undoubtedly ancient substantially.

THE DEATH-SONG OF OSSIAN. PAGE 41

The close of “The Songs of Selma.” (See foregoing Note.)

ANCIENT CORNISH

THE POOL OF PILATE. PAGE 45

From the ancient Cornish drama, _The Resurrection of Christ_ (_vide_ section: “The Death of Pilate”). See the volume on the subject by Mr Edwin Norris, referred to in Note to “The Vision of Seth.”

MERLIN THE DIVINER. PAGE 46

(_Vide_ Introduction.) This, though it exists in the old Cornish dialect, is really an ancient Breton incantation. The Cornish variant is to be found in that invaluable depository of Armorican legendary lore, the _Barzaz Breiz_. The translation here given is by Thos. Stephens. (_Vide_ _Thos. Stephens: a Memoir_. Wm. Rees, Llandovery, 1849.)

THE VISION OF SETH. PAGE 47

This dramatic fragment is from _The Ancient Cornish Drama_, edited and translated by Edwin Norris, Sec. R.A.S. (Oxford, 1859).

ARMORICAN

THE DANCE OF THE SWORD. PAGE 53

(_Vide_ Introduction.) In Armorican, _Gwin ar C‘ Hallaoued: Ha Korol or C‘ Hlezf_--_i.e._ The Wine of the Gauls, and the Dance of the Sword. Supposed to be the fragment of a Song that accompanied the old Celtic sword-dance in honour of the Sun. [This and the following translation by the late Tom Taylor are, by courteous permission of Messrs Macmillan, quoted from _Ballads and Songs of Brittany_ (selections from the _Barzaz Breiz_ of the Vicomte Hersart de la Villemarqué).]

THE LORD NANN AND THE FAIRY. PAGE 55

(By the same, and from the same source.) The “Korrigan” of Breton superstition has his familiar congeners in Celtic Scotland and Ireland; and is identical with the “elf” of Scandinavian mythology and of the Danish ballads. In this English version of “The Lord Nann” the metre and divisions into stanzas of the original Armorican have been adhered to. The triplet indicates antiquity in Cambrian and Armorican compositions.

ALAIN THE FOX. PAGE 58

This and the following poem are from the same Franco-Breton source as their two predecessors, but are translated by Mr F. G. Fleay, M.A. (_The Masterpieces of Breton Ballads._ Printed for Private Circulation. Halifax, 1870).

BRAN (THE CROW). PAGE 60

See foregoing Note.

EARLY CYMRIC

THE SOUL. PAGE 67

This strange fragment is of unknown antiquity, and may well be, as affirmed, of as remote a date as the 6th or even 5th century. It is from that remarkable depository of early Cymric lore, _The Black Book of Caermarthen_ (1154-1189).

LLYWARC’H HEN. PAGE 68

The “Gorwynion” of Llywarc’h Hên, “Prince of the Cambrian Britons” (if it is really the work of that poet), is one of the most famous productions of early Cymric literature. Llywarc’h Hên’s _floreat_ is by some authorities placed in the middle of the 7th century, by others so early as the beginning of the 6th, and by others as really extending from early in the 6th till the middle of the 7th: the drift of evidence indicates the remoter date as the more probable. The translation here given was made about a hundred years ago by William Owen. It is not easy to find an English equivalent for “Gorwynion,” a plural word which signifies objects that have a very bright whiteness or glare. Perhaps the word glitterings might serve, though, as has been suggested, the nearest term would be _Coruscants_. The last line of these verses generally contains some moral maxim, unconnected with the preceding lines, except in the metre. It is said that the custom arose through the desire of the bards to assist the memory in the conveyance of instruction by oral means. In the translation the rhymed or assonantal unity of the tercets is lost, with the result that the third-line maxim generally comes in with almost ludicrous inappositeness. According to the _Triads of the Isle of Britain_, Llywarc’h Hên passed his younger days at the Court of Arthur. In one triad he is alluded to as one of the three free guests at the Arthurian Court; in another, as one of the three counselling warriors. According to tradition, the bones of this princely bard lie beneath the Church of Llanvor, where, as averred, he was interred at the patriarchal age of 150 years. He was not one of the Sacred Bards, because of his military profession as a prince and knight; for these might not carry arms, and in their presence a naked sword even might not be held. The _Beirdd_ were not poets and sages only, but were accounted and accepted as missioners of peace.

LLYWARC’H HEN. PAGE 71

This is another series of “Gorwynion,” attributed to Llywarc’h Hên by Mr Skene, who has translated it from _The Red Book of Hergest_ (MS. compiled in 14th and 15th centuries). The English rendering of _The Red Book_ was issued through Messrs Edmonston & Douglas of Edinburgh in 1868.

TALIESIN. PAGE 73

“Song to the Wind” (_Vide_ Introduction). “The Song about the Wind,” of which only a section is given here, will be found in full in Skene’s _Four Ancient Books of Wales_, Vol. I., page 535, and is the most famous poem by the most famous of Cymric bards. It was first translated, some forty-five years ago, by Lady Charlotte Guest, whose Englished renderings of the “Mabinogion” attracted the attention of scholars throughout the whole Western world. (Longmans, 1849 and later.) Emerson delighted in the “Song,” and declared it to be one of the finest pieces of its kind extant in any literature. See also the _Myvyrian Archaiology_.

ANEURIN. PAGE 75

Aneurin was one of the famous warrior bards of ancient Wales. His birth is noted as _Circa_ 500 A.D., and in any case he flourished during the first half of the 6th century. Aneurin--like Taliesin, called “the monarch of the bards”--was a Briton of Manau Gododin, a principality or province of Cymric Scotland, now Mid-Lothian and Linlithgowshire. Manau Gododin stretched from the Carron of to-day (the Carun of Ossian), some miles to the north-west of Falkirk to the river Esk, that now divides Mid-Lothian and East Lothian. Manau Gododin was then much more Celtic (Pictish) than Gododin. “Breatan Cymru” (_i.e._ the country of the Welsh Britons) then comprised the larger part of southern Scotland--that is, from the north end of Loch Lomond, and from the upper reaches of the Gwruid (the Forth), to the Mull of Galloway on the south-west; eastward to a line drawn from the western Lammermuirs, by Melrose, Kelso, and Jedburgh, and so down by the Cheviots to Hexham, and thence southwesterly by Cumberland. The exception was the Pictish or Celtic province of Galloway--bounded on the west by Carrawg (that part of Ayrshire known as Carrick); on the north by Coel (Kyle); on the east by a line drawn from Sanquhar through Nithsdale and by Dumfries to Locharmoss and the Solway; on the south-west, by Novant (Mull of Galloway); and on the south by the Solway Firth.

Aneurin was a contemporary of the princely poet, Llywarc’h Hên. He was called Aneurin y Coed Awr ap Caw o Gwm Cawlwyd--or, again, Aneurin Gwadrydd--both designations indicative of his greatness. It has been maintained that Aneurin is identical with the celebrated Gildas, “the author of the Latin epistle which Bede so blindly copied,” both Aneurin and Gildas having been sons of Caw. He is supposed to be alluded to as the seventh bard, in a curious fragment preserved in the _Myvyrian Archaiology_ (Vol. III.), which I excerpt here.

“The seven questions put by Catwg the Wise, to the Seven Wise Men of the College of Llanvuthan, and the answers of these men:

1. “What is the greatest wisdom of man?” “To be able to do evil and
not to do it,” answered _St Tedio_.

2. “What is the highest goodness of man?” “Justice,” answered
_Tahaiarn_.

3. “What is the worst principle of man?” “Falsehood,” answered
_Taliesin_, chief of Bards.

4. “What is the noblest action of man?” “Correctness,” answered
_Cynan_, son of Clydno Eddin.

5. “What is the greatest folly of man?” “To desire a common evil,
which he cannot do,” answered _Ystyvan_, the Bard of Teilo.

6. “Who is the poorest man?” “He who is not contented with his own
property,” answered _Arawn_, son of Cynvarch.