Chapter II: Part 2

Fair white birds come, herons, seagulls,
The cuckoo sings between--
No mournful music! dun heathpoults
Out of the russet heather.

The lowing of heifers in summer,
Brightest of seasons!
Not bitter, toilsome over the fertile plain,
Delightful, smooth!

The voice of the wind against the branchy wood
Upon the deep-blue sky:
Falls of the river, the note of the swan,
Delicious music!

The bravest band make cheer to me,
Who have not been hired:
In the eyes of Christ the ever-young I am no worse off
Than thou art.

Though thou rejoicest in thy own pleasures,
Greater than any wealth;
I am grateful for what is given me
From my good Christ.

Without an hour of fighting, without the din of strife
In my house,
Grateful to the Prince who giveth every good
To me in my shieling.

GUARE

I would give my glorious kingship
With the share of my father's heritage--
To the hour of my death I would forfeit it
To be in thy company, my Marvan.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 14: Names of well-known plains.]

SONG OF THE SEA

A great tempest rages on the Plain of Ler, bold across its high borders
Wind has arisen, fierce winter has slain us; it has come across the sea,
It has pierced us like a spear.

When the wind sets from the east, the spirit of the wave is roused,
It desires to rush past us westward to the land where sets the sun,
To the wild and broad green sea.

When the wind sets from the north, it urges the dark fierce waves
Towards the southern world, surging in strife against the wide sky,
Listening to the witching song.

When the wind sets from the west across the salt sea of swift currents,
It desires to go past us eastward towards the Sun-Tree,
Into the broad long-distant sea.

When the wind sets from the south across the land of Saxons of mighty
shields,
The wave strikes the Isle of Scit, it surges up to the summit of
Caladnet,
And pounds the grey-green mouth of the Shannon.

The ocean is in flood, the sea is full, delightful is the home of ships,
The wind whirls the sand around the estuary,
Swiftly the rudder cleaves the broad sea.

With mighty force the wave has tumbled across each broad river-mouth,
Wind has come, white winter has slain us, around Cantire, around the
land of Alba,
Slieve-Dremon pours forth a full stream.

Son of the God the Father, with mighty hosts, save me from the horror
of fierce tempests!
Righteous Lord of the Feast, only save me from the horrid blast,
From Hell with furious tempest!

SUMMER HAS COME

Summer has come, healthy and free,
Whence the brown wood is aslope;
The slender nimble deer leap,
And the path of seals is smooth.

The cuckoo sings sweet music,
Whence there is smooth restful sleep;
Gentle birds leap upon the hill,
And swift grey stags.

Heat has laid hold of the rest of the deer--
The lovely cry of curly packs!
The white extent of the strand smiles,
There the swift sea is.

A sound of playful breezes in the tops
Of a black oakwood is Drum Daill,
The noble hornless herd runs,
To whom Cuan-wood is a shelter.

Green bursts out on every herb,
The top of the green oakwood is bushy,
Summer has come, winter has gone,
Twisted hollies wound the hound.

The blackbird sings a loud strain,
To him the live wood is a heritage,
The sad angry sea is fallen asleep,
The speckled salmon leaps.

The sun smiles over every land,--
A parting for me from the brood of cares:
Hounds bark, stags tryst,
Ravens flourish, summer has come!

SONG OF SUMMER

Summer-time, season supreme!
Splendid is colour then.
Blackbirds sing a full lay
If there be a slender shaft of day.

The dust-coloured cuckoo calls aloud:
Welcome, splendid summer!
The bitterness of bad weather is past,
The boughs of the wood are a thicket.

Panic startles the heart of the deer,
The smooth sea runs apace--
Season when ocean sinks asleep,
Blossom covers the world.

Bees with puny strength carry
A goodly burden, the harvest of blossoms;
Up the mountain-side kine take with them mud,
The ant makes a rich meal.

The harp of the forest sounds music,
The sail gathers--perfect peace;
Colour has settled on every height,
Haze on the lake of full waters.

The corncrake, a strenuous bard, discourses,
The lofty cold waterfall sings
A welcome to the warm pool--
The talk of the rushes has come.

Light swallows dart aloft,
Loud melody encircles the hill,
The soft rich mast buds,
The stuttering quagmire prattles.

The peat-bog is as the raven's coat,
The loud cuckoo bids welcome,
The speckled fish leaps--
Strong is the bound of the swift warrior.

Man flourishes, the maiden buds
In her fair strong pride.
Perfect each forest from top to ground,
Perfect each great stately plain.

Delightful is the season's splendour,
Rough winter has gone:
Every fruitful wood shines white,
A joyous peace is summer.

A flock of birds settles
In the midst of meadows,
The green field rustles,
Wherein is a brawling white stream.

A wild longing is on you to race horses,
The ranked host is ranged around:
A bright shaft has been shot into the land,
So that the water-flag is gold beneath it.

A timorous, tiny, persistent little fellow
Sings at the top of his voice,
The lark sings clear tidings:
Surpassing summer-time of delicate hues!

SUMMER IS GONE

My tidings for you: the stag bells,
Winter snows, summer is gone.

Wind high and cold, low the sun,
Short his course, sea running high.

Deep-red the bracken, its shape all gone--
The wild-goose has raised his wonted cry.

Cold has caught the wings of birds;
Season of ice--these are my tidings.

A SONG OF WINTER

Cold, cold!
Cold to-night is broad Moylurg,
Higher the snow than the mountain-range,
The deer cannot get at their food.

Cold till Doom!
The storm has spread over all:
A river is each furrow upon the slope,
Each ford a full pool.

A great tidal sea is each loch,
A full loch is each pool:
Horses cannot get over the ford of Ross,
No more can two feet get there.

The fish of Ireland are a-roaming,
There is no strand which the wave does not pound,
Not a town there is in the land,
Not a bell is heard, no crane talks.

The wolves of Cuan-wood get
Neither rest nor sleep in their lair,
The little wren cannot find
Shelter in her nest on the slope of Lon.

Keen wind and cold ice
Has burst upon the little company of birds,
The blackbird cannot get a lee to her liking,
Shelter for its side in Cuan-wood.

Cosy our pot on its hook,
Crazy the hut on the slope of Lon:
The snow has crushed the wood here,
Toilsome to climb up Ben-bo.

Glenn Rye's ancient bird
From the bitter wind gets grief;
Great her misery and her pain,
The ice will get into her mouth.

From flock and from down to rise--
Take it to heart!--were folly for thee:
Ice in heaps on every ford--
That is why I say 'cold'!

ARRAN

Arran of the many stags,
The sea strikes against its shoulder,
Isle in which companies are fed,
Ridge on which blue spears are reddened.

Skittish deer are on her peaks,
Delicious berries on her manes,
Cool water in her rivers,
Mast upon her dun oaks.

Greyhounds are in it and beagles,
Blackberries and sloes of the dark blackthorn,
Her dwellings close against the woods,
Deer scattered about her oak-woods.

Gleaning of purple upon her rocks,
Faultless grass upon her slopes,
Over her fair shapely crags
Noise of dappled fawns a-skipping.

Smooth is her level land, fat are her swine,
Bright are her fields,
Her nuts upon the tops of her hazel-wood,
Long galleys sailing past her.

Delightful it is when the fair season comes,
Trout under the brinks of her rivers,
Seagulls answer each other round her white cliff,
Delightful at all times is Arran!

LOVE POETRY

THE SONG OF CREDE, DAUGHTER OF GUARE

In the battle of Aidne, Crede, the daughter of King Guare of
Aidne, beheld Dinertach of the Hy Fidgenti, who had come to
the help of Guare, with seventeen wounds upon his breast.
Then she fell in love with him. He died, and was buried in
the cemetery of Colman's Church.

These are arrows that murder sleep
At every hour in the bitter-cold night:
Pangs of love throughout the day
For the company of the man from Roiny.

Great love of a man from another land
Has come to me beyond all else:
It has taken my bloom, no colour is left,
It does not let me rest.

Sweeter than songs was his speech,
Save holy adoration of Heaven's King;
He was a glorious flame, no boastful word fell from his lips,
A slender mate for a maid's side.

When I was a child I was bashful,
I was not given to going to trysts:
Since I have come to a wayward age,
My wantonness has beguiled me.

I have every good with Guare,
The King of cold Aidne:
But my mind has fallen away from my people
To the meadow at Irluachair.

There is chanting in the meadow of glorious Aidne
Around the sides of Colman's Church:
Glorious flame, now sunk into the grave--
Dinertach was his name.

It wrings my pitiable heart, O chaste Christ,
What has fallen to my lot:
These are arrows that murder sleep
At every hour in the bitter-cold night.

LIADIN AND CURITHIR

Liadin of Corkaguiney, a poetess, went visiting into the
country of Connaught. There Curithir, himself a poet, made
an ale-feast for her. 'Why should not we two unite, Liadin?'
saith Curithir. 'A son of us two would be famous.' 'Do not
let us do so now,' saith she, 'lest my round of visiting be
ruined for me. If you will come for me again at my home, I
shall go with you.' That fell so. Southward he went, and a
single gillie behind him with his poet's dress in a bag upon
his back, while Curithir himself was in a poor garb. There
were spear-heads in the bag also. He went till he was at the
well beside Liadin's court. There he took his crimson dress
about him, and the heads were put upon their shafts, and he
stood brandishing them.

Meanwhile Liadin had made a vow of chastity; but faithful to
her word she went with him. They proceed to the monastery of
Clonfert, where they put themselves under the spiritual
direction of Cummin, son of Fiachna. He first imposes a
slight probation upon them, allowing them to converse
without seeing each other. Then, challenged by Liadin, he
permits them a perilous freedom. In the result he banishes
Curithir, who thenceforward renounces love and becomes a
pilgrim. When Liadin still seeks him he crosses the sea. She
returns to the scene of their penance, and shortly dies.
When all is over, Cummin lovingly lays the stone where she
had mourned her love, and upon which she died, over the
grave of the unhappy maiden.

CURITHIR

Of late
Since I parted from Liadin,
Long as a month is every day,
Long as a year each month.

LIADIN

Joyless
The bargain I have made!
The heart of him I loved I wrung.

'Twas madness
Not to do his pleasure,
Were there not the fear of Heaven's King.

'Twas a trifle
That wrung Curithir's heart against me:
To him great was my gentleness.

A short while I was
In the company of Curithir:
Sweet was my intimacy with him.

The music of the forest
Would sing to me when with Curithir,
Together with the voice of the purple sea.

Would that
Nothing of all I have done
Should have wrung his heart against me!

Conceal it not!
He was my heart's love,
Whatever else I might love.

A roaring flame
Has dissolved this heart of mine--
Without him for certain it cannot live.

BARDIC POETRY

A DIRGE FOR KING NIALL OF THE NINE HOSTAGES (+ A.D. 405)

TUIRN SON OF TORNA

When we used to go to the gathering with Echu's[15] son,
Yellow as a bright primrose was the hair upon the head of Cairenn's[16]
son.

TORNA

Well hast thou spoken, dear son. A bondmaid should be given thee
For the sake of the hair which thou hast likened to the colour of the
crown of the primrose.

Eyelashes black, delicate, equal in beauty, and dark eyebrows--
The crown of the woad, a bright hyacinth, that was the colour of his
pupils.

TUIRN SON OF TORNA

The colour of his cheeks at all seasons, even and symmetrical:
The fox-glove, the blood of a calf--a feast without a flaw! the crown of
the forest in May.

TORNA

His white teeth, his red lips that never reproved in anger--
His shape like a fiery blaze overtopping the warriors of Erin.

Like the moon, like the sun, like a fiery beacon was the splendour of
Niall:
Like a dragon-ship from the wave without a flaw was Niall, Echu's son.

TUIRN SON OF TORNA

This is a yearnful music, the wail of every mouth in Kerry--
It increases my grief in my house for the death of Muredach's[17]
grandson.

Saxons will ravage here in the east, noble men of Erin and Alba,
After the death of Niall, Echu's noble son--it is a bitter cause of
reproach.

TORNA

Saxons with overwhelming cries of war, hosts of Lombards from the
continent,
From the hour in which the king fell Gael and Pict are in a sore
straight.

TUIRN SON OF TORNA

Upon Tara's rampart his fair hair shone against his ruddy face:
Like unto the colour of his hair is red gold or the yellow iris.

TORNA

'Twas great delight, 'twas great peace to be in the company of my dear
foster-son,[18]
When with Echu's son--it was no small thing--we used to go to the
gathering.

TUIRN SON OF TORNA

Darling hero of the white shoulder! whose tribes are vast, a beloved
host:
Every man was under protection when we used to go to forgather with him.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 15: Niall's father.]

[Footnote 16: Niall's mother.]

[Footnote 17: Niall's grandfather.]

[Footnote 18: _i.e._ Niall.]

THE SONG OF CARROLL'S SWORD (A.D. 909)

Hail, sword of Carroll! Oft hast thou been in the great woof of war,
Oft giving battle, beheading high princes.

Oft hast thou gone a-raiding in the hands of kings of great judgments,
Oft hast thou divided the spoil with a good king worthy of thee.

Oft where men of Leinster were hast thou been in a white hand,
Oft hast thou been among kings, oft among great bands.

Many were the kings that wielded thee in fight,
Many a shield hast thou cleft in battle, many a head and chest, many a
fair skin.

Forty years without sorrow Enna of the noble hosts had thee,
Never wast thou in a strait, but in the hands of a very fierce king.

Enna gave thee--'twas no niggardly gift--to his own son, to Dunling,
For thirty years in his possession, at last thou broughtest ruin to him.

Many a king upon a noble steed possessed thee unto Dermot the kingly, the
fierce:
Sixteen years was the time Dermot had thee.

At the feast of Allen Dermot the hardy-born bestowed thee,
Dermot, the noble king, gave thee to the man of Mairg, to Murigan.

Forty years stoutly thou wast in the hand of Allen's high-king,
With Murigan of mighty deeds thou never wast a year without battle.

In Wexford Murigan, the King of Vikings, gave thee to Carroll:
While he was upon the yellow earth Carroll gave thee to none.

Thy bright point was a crimson point in the battle of Odba of the
Foreigners,
When thou leftest Aed Finnliath on his back in the battle of Odba of the
noble routs.

Crimson was thy edge, it was seen; at Belach Moon thou wast proved,
In the valorous battle of Alvy's Plain throughout which the fighting
raged.

Before thee the goodly host broke on a Thursday at Dun Ochtair,
When Aed the fierce and brilliant fell upon the hillside above Leafin.

Before thee the host broke on the day when Kelly was slain,
Flannagan's son, with numbers of troops, in high lofty great Tara.

Before thee they ebbed southwards in the battle of the Boyne of the rough
feats,
When Cnogva fell, the lance of valour, at seeing thee, for dread of thee.

Thou wast furious, thou wast not weak, heroic was thy swift force,
When Ailill Frosach of Fal[19] fell in the front of the onset.

Thou never hadst a day of defeat with Carroll of the beautiful garths.
He swore no lying oath, he went not against his word.

Thou never hadst a day of sorrow, many a night thou hadst abroad;
Thou hadst awaiting thee many a king with many a battle.

O sword of the kings of mighty fires, do not fear to be astray!
Thou shalt find thy man of craft, a lord worthy of thee.

Who shall henceforth possess thee, or to whom wilt thou deal ruin?
From the day that Carroll departed, with whom wilt thou be bedded?

Thou shalt not be neglected until thou come to the house of glorious
Naas:
Where Finn of the feasts is they will hail thee with 'welcome.'

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 19: A name for Ireland.]

EOCHAID ON THE DEATH OF KING AED MAC DOMNAILL UA NEILL[20]

Aed of Ailech, beloved he was to me,
Woe, O God, that he should have died!
Seven years with Aed of Ath I--
One month with Mael na mBo[21] would be longer!

Seven years I had with the King of Ross,
Delightful was my time with the lord of Slemish,
Though I were but one month with the king in the south,
I know that it would weary me.

Many honours the king gave to me,
To pleasure me he brought down stags:
A herd of horses he gave to me in my day,
The great son of the woman from Magh Ai.

Alas, O Comgall, master of harmonies,
That the son of Domnaill should be food for worms!
Alas that his face should be on the ground!
Alas for noble Ailech without Aed!

From the day that great Aed was slain
Few men on earth but are in want:
Since _he_ has died that was another Lugh,[22]
It were right to shed tears of blood.

Tara is deprived of her benefactor,
A blight is upon his kindred,
Torture is put upon the rays of the sun,
Glorious Erin is without Aed.

Fair weather shines not on the mountain-side,
Fine-clustering fruit is not enjoyed,
The gloom of every night is dark
Since earth was put over Aed.

Ye folk of great Armagh,
With whom the son of the chief lies on his back,
Cause of reproach will come of it
That your grave is open before Aed.

In the battle of Craeb Tholcha in the north
I left my fair companions behind!
Alas for the fruit of the heavy bloodshed
Which severed Eochaid and Aed!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 20: Who had fallen in the battle of Craeb Tholcha, A.D. 1004.]

[Footnote 21: King of South Leinster.]

[Footnote 22: A famous mythical hero.]

ERARD MAC COISSE ON THE DEATH OF KING MALACHY II.[23]

Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath![24]
Alas that thy lord is not alive!
The high-king of Meath of the polished walls,
His death has thrown us off our course.

Thou without games, without drinking of ale,
Thou shining abode of the twisted horns!
After Malachy of noble shape
Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath!

I upon the green of thy smooth knolls
Like Ronan's son after the Fiana,
Or like a hind after her fawn,
Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath!

I got three hundred speckled cups,
Three hundred steeds and bridles
In this famous fort of noble shape--
Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath!

After Malachy and sweet Brian,[25]
And Murchad[26] that was never weak in hurdled battle,
My heart has been left without a leap of vigour,
Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath!

Ochone! I am the wretched phantom,
Small are my wages since the three are gone.
Greater than my own ruin is my cause of lament,
Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath!

Och! 'tis I that am the body without head,
I, Mac Coisse, chief of all poets--
Now that my skill and my vigour are gone,
Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 23: King of Ireland. He died in 1022.]

[Footnote 24: The Fort of the Shields, on Lough Ennel, Co. Westmeath.]

[Footnote 25: _i.e._ Brian Boru, who had fallen in 1014 in the battle of Clontarf.]

[Footnote 26: Brian's son, fallen at Clontarf.]

MISCELLANEOUS

THE MONK AND HIS PET CAT

I and my white Pangur
Have each his special art:
His mind is set on hunting mice,
Mine is upon my special craft.

I love to rest--better than any fame!--
With close study at my little book:
White Pangur does not envy me:
He loves his childish play.

When in our house we two are all alone--
A tale without tedium!
We have--sport never-ending!
Something to exercise our wit.

At times by feats of derring-do
A mouse sticks in his net,
While into my net there drops
A difficult problem of hard meaning.

He points his full shining eye
Against the fence of the wall:
I point my clear though feeble eye
Against the keenness of science.

He rejoices with quick leaps
When in his sharp claw sticks a mouse:
I too rejoice when I have grasped
A problem difficult and dearly loved.

Though we are thus at all times,
Neither hinders the other,
Each of us pleased with his own art
Amuses himself alone.

He is a master of the work
Which every day he does:
While I am at my own work
To bring difficulty to clearness.

COLUM CILLE'S GREETING TO IRELAND

Delightful to be on the Hill of Howth
Before going over the white-haired sea:
The dashing of the wave against its face,
The bareness of its shores and of its border.

Delightful to be on the Hill of Howth
After coming over the white-bosomed sea;
To be rowing one's little coracle,
Ochone! on the wild-waved shore.

Great is the speed of my coracle,
And its stern turned upon Derry:
Grievous is my errand over the main,
Travelling to Alba of the beetling brows.

My foot in my tuneful coracle,
My sad heart tearful:
A man without guidance is weak,
Blind are all the ignorant.

There is a grey eye
That will look back upon Erin:
It shall never see again
The men of Erin nor her women.

I stretch my glance across the brine
From the firm oaken planks:
Many are the tears of my bright soft grey eye
As I look back upon Erin.

My mind is upon Erin,
Upon Loch Lene, upon Linny,
Upon the land where Ulstermen are,
Upon gentle Munster and upon Meath.

Many in the East are lanky chiels,
Many diseases there and distempers,
Many they with scanty dress,
Many the hard and jealous hearts.

Plentiful in the West the fruit of the apple-tree,
Many kings and princes;
Plentiful are luxurious sloes,
Plentiful oak-woods of noble mast.

Melodious her clerics, melodious her birds,
Gentle her youths, wise her elders,
Illustrious her men, famous to behold,
Illustrious her women for fond espousal.

It is in the West sweet Brendan is,
And Colum son of Criffan,
And in the West fair Baithin shall be,
And in the West shall be Adamnan.

Carry my greeting after that
To Comgall of eternal life:
Carry my greeting after that
To the stately king of fair Navan.

Carry with thee, thou fair youth,
My blessing and my benediction,
One half upon Erin, sevenfold,
And half upon Alba at the same time.

Carry my blessing with thee to the West,
My heart is broken in my breast:
Should sudden death overtake me,
It is for my great love of the Gael.

Gael! Gael! beloved name!
It gladdens the heart to invoke it:
Beloved is Cummin of the beauteous hair,
Beloved are Cainnech and Comgall.

Were all Alba mine
From its centre to its border,
I would rather have the site of a house
In the middle of fair Derry.

It is for this I love Derry,
For its smoothness, for its purity,
And for its crowd of white angels
From one end to another.

It is for this I love Derry,
For its smoothness, for its purity;
All full of angels
Is every leaf on the oaks of Derry.

My Derry, my little oak-grove,
My dwelling and my little cell,
O living God that art in Heaven above,
Woe to him who violates it!

Beloved are Durrow and Derry,
Beloved is Raphoe with purity,
Beloved Drumhome with its sweet acorns,
Beloved are Swords and Kells!

Beloved also to my heart in the West
Drumcliff on Culcinne's strand:
To gaze upon fair Loch Foyle--
The shape of its shores is delightful.

Delightful it is,
The deep-red ocean where the sea-gulls cry,
As I come from Derry afar,
It is peaceful and it is delightful.

ON ANGUS THE CULDEE (+ ca. 830)

Delightful to sit here thus
By the side of the cold pure Nore:
Though it was frequented, it was never a path o raids
In glorious Disert Bethech.[27]

Disert Bethech, where dwelt the man
Whom hosts of angels were wont to visit;
A pious cloister behind a circle of crosses,
Where Angus son of Oivlen used to be.

Angus from the assembly of Heaven,
Here are his tomb and his grave:
'Tis hence he went to death,
On a Friday, to holy Heaven.

'Tis in Clonenagh he was reared,
In Clonenagh he was buried:
In Clonenagh of many crosses
He first read his psalms.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 27: 'Beechen Hermitage.']

COLUM CILLE THE SCRIBE

My hand is weary with writing,
My sharp quill is not steady,
My slender-beaked pen juts forth
A black draught of shining dark-blue ink.

A stream of the wisdom of blessed God
Springs from my fair-brown shapely hand:
On the page it squirts its draught
Of ink of the green-skinned holly.

My little dripping pen travels
Across the plain of shining books,
Without ceasing for the wealth of the great--
Whence my hand is weary with writing.

THE LAMENT OF THE OLD WOMAN OF BEARE

The reason why she was called the Old Woman of Beare was
that she had fifty foster-children in Beare. She had seven
periods of youth one after another, so that every man who
had lived with her came to die of old age, and her grandsons
and great-grandsons were tribes and races. For a hundred
years she wore the veil which Cummin had blessed upon her
head. Thereupon old age and infirmity came to her. 'Tis then
she said:

Ebb-tide to me as of the sea!
Old age causes me reproach.
Though I may grieve thereat--
Happiness comes out of fat.

I am the Old Woman of Beare,
An ever-new smock I used to wear:
To-day--such is my mean estate--
I wear not even a cast-off smock.

It is riches
Ye love, it is not men:
In the time when _we_ lived
It was men we loved.

Swift chariots,
And steeds that carried off the prize,--
Their day of plenty has been,
A blessing on the King who lent them!

My body with bitterness has dropt
Towards the abode we know:
When the Son of God deems it time
Let Him come to deliver His behest.

My arms when they are seen
Are bony and thin:
Once they would fondle,
They would be round glorious kings.

When my arms are seen,
And they bony and thin,
They are not fit, I declare,
To be uplifted over comely youths.

The maidens rejoice
When May-day comes to them:
For me sorrow is meeter,
For I am wretched, I am an old hag.

I hold no sweet converse,
No wethers are killed for my wedding-feast,
My hair is all but grey,
The mean veil over it is no pity.

I do not deem it ill
That a white veil should be on my head:
Time was when many cloths of every hue
Bedecked my head as we drank the good ale.

The Stone of the Kings on Femen,
The Chair of Ronan in Bregon,
'Tis long since storms have reached them.
The slabs of their tombs are old and decayed.

The wave of the great sea talks aloud,
Winter has arisen:
Fermuid the son of Mugh to-day
I do not expect on a visit.

I know what they are doing:
They row and row across
The reeds of the Ford of Alma--
Cold is the dwelling where they sleep.

'Tis 'O my God!'
To me to-day, whatever will come of it.
I must take my garment even in the sun:[28]
The time is at hand that shall renew me.

Youth's summer in which we were
I have spent with its autumn:
Winter-age which overwhelms all men,
To me has come its beginning.

Amen! Woe is me!
Every acorn has to drop.
After feasting by shining candles
To be in the gloom of a prayer-house!

I had my day with kings
Drinking mead and wine:
To-day I drink whey-water
Among shrivelled old hags.

I see upon my cloak the hair of old age,
My reason has beguiled me:
Grey is the hair that grows through my skin--
'Tis thus I am an old hag.

The flood-wave
And the second ebb-tide--
They have all reached me,
So that I know them well.

The flood-wave
Will not reach the silence of my kitchen:
Though many are my company in darkness,
A hand has been laid upon them all.

O happy the isle of the great sea
Which the flood reaches after the ebb!
As for me, I do not expect
Flood after ebb to come to me.

There is scarce a little place to-day
That I can recognise:
What was on flood
Is all on ebb.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 28: 'Je tremble a present dedans la canicule.'--Moliere, _Sganarelle_, scene 2.]

THE DESERTED HOME

Sadly talks the blackbird here.
Well I know the woe he found:
No matter who cut down his nest,
For its young it was destroyed.

I myself not long ago
Found the woe he now has found.
Well I read thy song, O bird,
For the ruin of thy home.

Thy heart, O blackbird, burnt within
At the deed of reckless man:
Thy nest bereft of young and egg
The cowherd deems a trifling tale.

At thy clear notes they used to come,
Thy new-fledged children, from afar;
No bird now comes from out thy house,
Across its edge the nettle grows.

They murdered them, the cowherd lads,
All thy children in one day:
One the fate to me and thee,
My own children live no more.

There was feeding by thy side
Thy mate, a bird from o'er the sea:
Then the snare entangled her,
At the cowherds' hands she died.

O Thou, the Shaper of the world!
Uneven hands Thou layst on us:
Our fellows at our side are spared,
Their wives and children are alive.

A fairy host came as a blast
To bring destruction to our house:
Though bloodless was their taking off,
Yet dire as slaughter by the sword.

Woe for our wife, woe for our young!
The sadness of our grief is great:
No trace of them within, without--
And therefore is my heart so sad.

CORMAC MAC CULENNAIN SANG THIS

Shall I launch my dusky little coracle
On the broad-bosomed glorious ocean?
Shall I go, O King of bright Heaven,
Of my own will upon the brine?

Whether it be roomy or narrow,
Whether it be served by crowds of hosts--
O God, wilt Thou stand by me
When it comes upon the angry sea?

ALEXANDER THE GREAT

Four men stood by the grave of a man,
The grave of Alexander the Proud;
They sang words without falsehood
Over the prince from fair Greece.

Said the first man of them:
'Yesterday there were around the king
The men of the world--a sad gathering!
Though to-day he is alone.'

'Yesterday the king of the brown world
Rode upon the heavy earth:
Though to-day it is the earth
That rides upon his neck.'

'Yesterday,' said the third wise author,
'Philip's son owned the whole world:
To-day he has nought
Save seven feet of earth.'

'Alexander the liberal and great
Was wont to bestow silver and gold:
To-day,' said the fourth man,
'The gold is here, and it is nought.'

Thus truly spoke the wise men
Around the grave of the high-king:
It was not foolish women's talk
What those four sang.

QUATRAINS

THE SCRIBE

A hedge of trees surrounds me,
A blackbird's lay sings to me;
Above my lined booklet
The trilling birds chant to me.

In a grey mantle from the top of bushes
The cuckoo sings:
Verily--may the Lord shield me!--
Well do I write under the greenwood.

ON A DEAD SCHOLAR

Dead is Lon
Of Kilgarrow, O great hurt!
To Ireland and beyond her border
It is ruin of study and of schools.

THE CRUCIFIXION

At the cry of the first bird
They began to crucify Thee, O cheek like a swan!
It were not right ever to cease lamenting--
It was like the parting of day from night.

Ah! though sore the suffering
Put upon the body of Mary's Son--
Sorer to Him was the grief
That was upon her for His sake.

THE PILGRIM AT ROME

To go to Rome
Is much of trouble, little of profit:
The King whom thou seekest here,
Unless thou bring Him with thee, thou wilt not find.

HOSPITALITY

O King of stars!
Whether my house be dark or bright,
Never shall it be closed against any one,
Lest Christ close His house against me.

If there be a guest in your house
And you conceal aught from him,
'Tis not the guest that will be without it,
But Jesus, Mary's Son.

THE BLACKBIRD

Ah, blackbird, thou art satisfied
Where thy nest is in the bush:
Hermit that clinkest no bell,
Sweet, soft, peaceful is thy note.

MOLING SANG THIS

When I am among my elders
I am proof that sport is forbidden:
When I am among the mad young folk
They think that I am their junior.

THE CHURCH BELL IN THE NIGHT

Sweet little bell
That is struck[29] in the windy night,
I liefer go to a tryst with thee
Than to a tryst with a foolish woman.

THE VIKING TERROR

Bitter is the wind to-night,
It tosses the ocean's white hair:
To-night I fear not the fierce warriors of Norway
Coursing on the Irish Sea.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 29: The tongueless Irish bells were struck, not rung.]

FROM THE TRIADS OF IRELAND

Three slender things that best support the world: the slender stream of milk from the cow's dug into the pail; the slender blade of green corn upon the ground; the slender thread over the hand of a skilled woman.

The three worst welcomes: a handicraft in the same house with the inmates; scalding water upon your feet; salt food without a drink.

Three rejoicings followed by sorrow: a wooer's, a thief's, a tale-bearer's.

Three rude ones of the world: a youngster mocking an old man; a robust person mocking an invalid; a wise man mocking a fool.

Three fair things that hide ugliness: good manners in the ill-favoured; skill in a serf; wisdom in the misshapen.

Three sparks that kindle love: a face, demeanour, speech.

Three glories of a gathering: a beautiful wife, a good horse, a swift hound.

Three fewnesses that are better than plenty: a fewness of fine words; a fewness of cows in grass; a fewness of friends around good ale.

Three ruins of a tribe: a lying chief, a false judge, a lustful priest.

Three laughing-stocks of the world: an angry man, a jealous man, a niggard.

Three signs of ill-breeding: a long visit, staring, constant questioning.

Three signs of a fop: the track of his comb in his hair; the track of his teeth in his food; the track of his stick behind him.

Three idiots of a bad guest-house: an old hag with a chronic cough; a brainless tartar of a girl; a hobgoblin of a gillie.

Three things that constitute a physician: a complete cure; leaving no blemish behind; a painless examination.

Three things betokening trouble: holding plough-land in common; performing feats together; alliance in marriage.

Three nurses of theft: a wood, a cloak, night.

Three false sisters: 'perhaps,' 'may be,' 'I dare say.'

Three timid brothers: 'hush!' 'stop!' 'listen!'

Three sounds of increase: the lowing of a cow in milk; the din of a smithy; the swish of a plough.

Three steadinesses of good womanhood: keeping a steady tongue; a steady chastity; a steady housewifery.

Three excellences of dress: elegance, comfort, lastingness.

Three candles that illume every darkness: truth, nature, knowledge.

Three keys that unlock thoughts: drunkenness, trustfulness, love.

Three youthful sisters: desire, beauty, generosity.

Three aged sisters: groaning, chastity, ugliness.

Three nurses of high spirits: pride, wooing, drunkenness.

Three coffers whose depth is not known: the coffers of a chieftain, of the Church, of a privileged poet.

Three things that ruin wisdom: ignorance, inaccurate knowledge, forgetfulness.

Three things that are best for a chief: justice, peace, an army.

Three things that are worst for a chief: sloth, treachery, evil counsel.

Three services, the worst that a man can serve: serving a bad woman, a bad lord, and bad land.

Three lawful handbreadths: a handbreadth between shoes and hose, between ear and hair, and between the fringe of the tunic and the knee.

Three angry sisters: blasphemy, strife, foul-mouthedness.

Three disrespectful sisters: importunity, frivolity, flightiness.

Three signs of a bad man: bitterness, hatred, cowardice.

FROM THE INSTRUCTIONS OF KING CORMAC

'O Cormac, grandson of Conn,' said Carbery, 'what are the dues of a chief and of an ale-house?'

'Not hard to tell,' said Cormac.

'Good behaviour around a good chief,
Lights to lamps,
Exerting oneself for the company,
A proper settlement of seats,
Liberality of dispensers,
A nimble hand at distributing,
Attentive service,
Music in moderation,
Short story-telling,
A joyous countenance,
Welcome to guests,
Silence during recitals,
Harmonious choruses.'

'O Cormac, grandson of Conn,' said Carbery, 'what were your habits when you were a lad?'

'Not hard to tell,' said Cormac.

'I was a listener in woods,
I was a gazer at stars,
I was blind where secrets were concerned,
I was silent in a wilderness,
I was talkative among many,
I was mild in the mead-hall,
I was stern in battle,
I was gentle towards allies,
I was a physician of the sick,
I was weak towards the feeble,
I was strong towards the powerful,
I was not close lest I should be burdensome,
I was not arrogant though I was wise,
I was not given to promising though I was strong,
I was not venturesome though I was swift,
I did not deride the old though I was young,
I was not boastful though I was a good fighter,
I would not speak about any one in his absence,
I would not reproach, but I would praise,
I would not ask, but I would give,--

for it is through these habits that the young become old and kingly warriors.'

'O Cormac, grandson of Conn,' said Carbery, 'what is the worst thing you have seen?'

'Not hard to tell,' said Cormac. 'Faces of foes in the rout of battle.'

'O Cormac, grandson of Conn,' said Carbery, 'what is the sweetest thing you have heard?'

'Not hard to tell,' said Cormac.

'The shout of triumph after victory,
Praise after wages,
A lady's invitation to her pillow.'

'O Cormac, grandson of Conn,' said Carbery, 'how do you distinguish women?'

'Not hard to tell,' said Cormac. 'I distinguish them, but I make no difference among them.

'They are crabbed as constant companions,
haughty when visited,
lewd when neglected,
silly counsellors,
greedy of increase;
they have tell-tale faces,
they are quarrelsome in company,
steadfast in hate,
forgetful of love,
anxious for alliance,
accustomed to slander,
stubborn in a quarrel,
not to be trusted with a secret,
ever intent on pilfering,
boisterous in their jealousy,
ever ready for an excuse,
on the pursuit of folly,
slanderers of worth,
scamping their work,
stiff when paying a visit,
disdainful of good men,
gloomy and stubborn,
viragoes in strife,
sorrowful in an ale-house,
tearful during music,
lustful in bed,
arrogant and disingenuous,
abettors of strife,
niggardly with food,
rejecting wisdom,
eager to make appointments,
sulky on a journey,
troublesome bedfellows,
deaf to instruction,
blind to good advice,
fatuous in society,
craving for delicacies,
chary in their presents,
languid when solicited,
exceeding all bounds in keeping others waiting,
tedious talkers,
close practitioners,
dumb on useful matters,
eloquent on trifles.
Happy he who does not yield to them!
They should be dreaded like fire,
they should be feared like wild beasts.
Woe to him who humours them!
Better to beware of them than to trust them,
better to trample upon them than to fondle them,
better to crush them than to cherish them.
They are waves that drown you,
they are fire that burns you,
they are two-edged weapons that cut you,
they are moths for tenacity,
they are serpents for cunning,
they are darkness in light,
they are bad among the good,
they are worse among the bad.'

'O Cormac, grandson of Conn,' said Carbery, 'what is the worst for the body of man?'

'Not hard to tell,' said Cormac. 'Sitting too long, lying too long, long standing, lifting heavy things, exerting oneself beyond one's strength, running too much, leaping too much, frequent falls, sleeping with one's leg over the bed-rail, gazing at glowing embers, wax, biestings, new ale, bull-flesh, curdles, dry food, bog-water, rising too early, cold, sun, hunger, drinking too much, eating too much, sleeping too much, sinning too much, grief, running up a height, shouting against the wind, drying oneself by a fire, summer-dew, winter-dew, beating ashes, swimming on a full stomach, sleeping on one's back, foolish romping.'

'O Cormac, grandson of Conn,' said Carbery, 'what is the worst pleading and arguing?'

'Not hard to tell,' said Cormac.

'Contending against knowledge,
contending without proofs,
taking refuge in bad language,
a stiff delivery,
a muttering speech,
hair-splitting,
uncertain proofs,
despising books,
turning against custom,
shifting one's pleading,
inciting the mob,
blowing one's own trumpet,
shouting at the top of one's voice.'

'O Cormac, grandson of Conn,' said Carbery, 'who are the worst for whom you have a comparison?'

'Not hard to tell,' said Cormac.

'A man with the impudence of a satirist,
with the pugnacity of a slave-woman,
with the carelessness of a dog,
with the conscience of a hound,
with a robber's hand,
with a bull's strength,
with the dignity of a judge,
with keen ingenious wisdom,
with the speech of a stately man,
with the memory of an historian,
with the behaviour of an abbot,
with the swearing of a horse-thief,

and he wise, lying, grey-haired, violent, swearing, garrulous, when he says "the matter is settled, I swear, you shall swear."'

'O Cormac, grandson of Conn,' said Carbery, 'I desire to know how I shall behave among the wise and the foolish, among friends and strangers, among the old and the young, among the innocent and the wicked.'

'Not hard to tell,' said Cormac.

'Be not too wise, nor too foolish,
be not too conceited, nor too diffident,
be not too haughty, nor too humble,
be not too talkative, nor too silent,
be not too hard, nor too feeble.

If you be too wise, one will expect too much of you;
if you be too foolish, you will be deceived;
if you be too conceited, you will be thought vexatious;
if you be too humble, you will be without honour;
if you be too talkative, you will not be heeded;
if you be too silent, you will not be regarded;
if you be too hard, you will be broken;
if you be too feeble, you will be crushed.'

NOTES

'The Isles of the Happy' and 'The Sea-god's Address to Bran' are poems interspersed in the prose tale called 'The Voyage of Bran son of Febal to the Land of the Living.' For text and translation see my edition (London: D. Nutt, 1895), pp. 4 and 16. The tale was probably first written down early in the eighth, perhaps late in the seventh century.

'The Tryst after Death' (_Reicne Fothaid Canainne_) belongs to the ninth century. For the original text and translation see my 'Fianaigecht, a collection of hitherto inedited Irish poems and tales relating to Finn and his Fiana' (Dublin: Hodges, Figgis and Co., 1910), p. 10 ff.

'Deirdre's Farewell to Scotland' and 'Deirdre's Lament' are taken from the well-known tale called 'The Death of the Children of Usnech.' The text which is here rendered is that of the Middle-Irish version edited and translated by Whitley Stokes (_Irische Texte_, ii., Leipzig, 1884), pp. 127 and 145. My rendering follows in the main that of Stokes.

'The Hosts of Faery.'--From the tale called 'Laegaire mac Crimthainn's Visit to the Fairy Realm of Mag Mell,' the oldest copy of which is found in the Book of Leinster, a MS. of the twelfth century, p. 275 _b_. See S.H. O'Grady's _Silva Gadelica_ (Williams and Norgate, 1892), vol. i. p. 256; vol. ii. p. 290, where, however, the verse is not translated.

The two poems from the 'Vision of MacConglinne' are taken from my translation of the twelfth-century burlesque so called (D. Nutt, 1892), pp. 34 and 78.

'A Dirge for King Niall of the Nine Hostages.'--Text and translation in _Festschrift fuer Whitley Stokes_ (Harrassowitz, Leipzig, 1900), p. 1 ff., and in the _Gaelic Journal_, x.p. 578 ff. Late eighth or early ninth century.

'The Song of Carroll's Sword.'--Edited and translated in _Revue Celtique_, xx. p. 7 ff., and again in the _Gaelic Journal_, x.p. 613. Dallan mac More, to whom the poem is ascribed, was chief bard to King Carroll (Cerball) mac Muiregan of Leinster, who reigned from about A.D. 885 to 909.

'Eochaid's Lament.'--Text published in _Archiv fuer celtische Lexikographie_ (Niemeyer, Halle a. S., 1907), vol. iii. p. 304.

'Lament on King Malachy II.'--_Ibid._, p. 305.

'King and Hermit.'--First published and translated by me under that title with Messrs. D. Nutt, 1901. The language is that of the tenth century.

'Song of the Sea.'--Text and translation in _Otia Merseiana_ (the publication of the Arts Faculty, University College, Liverpool), vol. ii. p. 76 ff. Though the poem is ascribed to the celebrated poet Rumann, who died in 748, its language points to the eleventh century.

'Summer has come.'--Text and translation in my _Four Songs of Summer and Winter_ (D. Nutt, 1903), p. 20 ff. The piece probably dates from the tenth century.

'Song of Summer.'--_Ibid._, p. 8 ff., and _Eriu_, the Journal of the School of Irish Learning, i. p. 186. The date is the ninth century, I think.

'Summer is gone.'--_Ibid._, p. 14. Ninth century.

'A Song of Winter.'--From the story called 'The Hiding of the Hill of Howth,' first printed and translated by me in _Revue Celtique_, xi. p. 125 ff. Probably tenth century.

'Arran.'--Taken from the thirteenth-century prose tale called _Agallamh na Senorach_, edited and translated by S.H. O'Grady in _Silva Gadelica_. The poem refers to the island in the Firth of Clyde.

'The Song of Crede, daughter of Guare.'--See text and translation in _Eriu_, ii. p. 15 ff. Probably tenth century.

'Liadin and Curithir.'--First published and translated by me under that title with Messrs. D. Nutt, 1902. It belongs to the ninth century.

'The Deer's Cry.'--For the text and translation see Stokes and Strachan, _Thesaurus Palaeohibernicus_ (University Press, Cambridge), vol. ii. p. 354. I have adopted the translation there given except in some details. The hymn in the form in which it has come down to us cannot be earlier than the eighth century.

'An Evening Song.'--Printed in my _Selections from Old-Irish Poetry_, p. 1. Though ascribed to Patrick, the piece cannot be older than the tenth century.

'Patrick's Blessing on Munster.'--Taken from the _Tripartite Life of Patrick_, edited by Whitley Stokes (Rolls Series, London, 1887), p. 216. Not earlier than the ninth century.

'The Hermit's Song.'--See _Eriu_, vol. i. p. 39, where the Irish text will be found. The poem dates from the ninth century.

'A Prayer to the Virgin.'--See Strachan's edition of the original in _Eriu_, i. p. 122. There is another copy in the Bodleian MS. Laud 615, p. 91, from which I have taken some better readings. The poem is hardly earlier than the tenth century.

'Eve's Lament.'--See _Eriu_, iii. p. 148. The date is probably the late tenth or early eleventh century.

'On the Flightiness of Thought.'--See _Eriu_, iii. p. 13. Tenth century.

'To Crinog.'--The Irish text was published by me in the _Zeitschrift fuer celtische Philologie_, vol. vi. p. 257. The date of the poem is the tenth century. Crinog was evidently what is known in the literature of early Christianity as [Greek: iagapete], _virgo subintroducta_ ([Greek: syneisaktos]) or _conhospita_, _i.e._ a nun who lived with a priest, monk, or hermit like a sister or 'spiritual wife' (_uxor spiritualis_). This practice, which was early suppressed and abandoned everywhere else, seems to have survived in the Irish Church till the tenth century. See on the whole subject H. Achelis, _Virgines Subintroductae_, ein Beitrag zu i., Kor. vii. (Leipzig, 1902).

'The Devil's Tribute to Moling.'--For text and translation see Whitley Stokes's _Goidelica_, 2nd ed., p. 180, and his edition of _Felire Oingusso_, p. 154 ff. I have in the main followed Stokes's rendering.

'Maelisu's Hymn to the Archangel Michael.'--Text and translation in the _Gaelic Journal_, vol. iv. p. 56. Maelisu ua Brolchain was a writer of religious poetry both in Irish and Latin, who died in 1056.

'The Mothers' Lament at the Slaughter of the Innocents.'--See text and translation in the _Gaelic Journal_, iv. p. 89. The piece probably belongs to the eleventh century.

'Colum Cille's Greeting to Ireland.'--From Reeves' edition of Adamnan's _Life of St. Columba_, p. 285. The poem, like most of those ascribed to this saint, is late, belonging probably to the twelfth century.

'The Lament of the Old Woman of Beare.'--Text and translation in _Otia Merseiana_, i. p. 119 ff. The language of the poem points to the late tenth century.

'The Deserted Home.'--See _Gaelic Journal_, iv. p. 42. Probably eleventh century.

'Colum Cille the Scribe.'--See _Gaelic Journal_, viii. p. 49. Probably eleventh century.

'The Monk and his Pet Cat.'--Text and translation in _Thesaurus Palaeohibernicus_, ii. p. 293. I have made my own translation. The language is that of the late eighth or early ninth century.

'The Crucifixion.'--From _Leabhar Breac_, p. 262 _marg. sup._ and p. 168 _marg. inf._

'Pilgrimage to Rome.'--See _Thes. Pal._, ii. p. 296.

'On a Dead Scholar.'--From the notes to the _Felire Oingusso_, ed. Wh. Stokes (Henry Bradshaw Society, vol. xxix.), p. 198.

'Hospitality.'--From the Brussels MS., 5100-4, p. 5, and _Leabhar Breac_, p. 93, _marg. sup._

'The Scribe.'--See _Thes. Pal._, ii. p. 290.

'Moling sang this.'--From the notes to the _Felire Oingusso_, ed. Wh. Stokes, p. 150.

'The Church Bell.'--See _Irische Texte_, iii. p. 155.

'The Blackbird.'--From _Leabhar Breac_, p. 36, _marg. sup._

The 'Triads of Ireland.' Edited and translated by me in the Todd Lecture Series of the Royal Irish Academy, vol. xiii. (Hodges, Figgis and Co., Dublin, 1906). The collection was made towards the end of the ninth century.

The 'Instructions of King Cormac.' Edited and translated by me in the Todd Lecture Series, vol. xv. (Dublin, 1909). Early ninth century.

Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to His Majesty at the Edinburgh University Press