Chapter III: The Seven Drunkards

O WHERE are there seven beneath the sky
Who with these seven for thirst can vie?
But the best for good ale these seven among
Are the jolly divine and the son of song.

SIR RHYS AP THOMAS.

"Great Rice of Wales."

Y BRENIN biau'r ynys,
Ond sy o ran i Syr Rys.

The King owns all the island wide
Except the part where Rice doth bide.

* * *

Y Brenin biau'r ynys;
A chyriau Frank, a chorf Rys.

The King owns all the island wide,
A part of France, and Rice beside.

_Rhys Nanmor a'i Kant_.

HIRAETH. {167} A Short Elegy.

" . . . An old bard, who wrote a short elegy on the death of the
governor of -- and his dame, and who says that he himself was fading
with longing on their account."

--_Borrow MS._

LONGING for them doth fade my cheek;
He was a man, and she was meek;
A lion was he, she full of glee;
He handsome was, she fair to see.
A wondrous concord here was view'd;
He was wise, and she was good;
He liberal was, she kind of mood;
To heaven he went, she him pursued.

PWLL CHERES: THE VORTEX OF MENAI.

PWLL CHERES, the dread whirlpool of Menai,
Twisteth the waves, as if a knot should tie:
A hideous howling hollow, an abyss
Enough to scare the heart is Pwll Cheres.

THE MOUNTAIN SNOW.

THE mountain snow: the stag doth fly,
The wind about the roofs doth sigh.
Love cannot in concealment lie.

The mountain snow: the grove is dark,
The raven black; the hound doth bark.
God keep you from all evil work.

The mountain snow: the crust is sound;
The wind doth twist the reeds around.
Where ignorance is, no grace is found.

CAROLAN'S LAMENT.

_From the Irish_.

THE arts of Greece, Rome, and of Eirin's fair earth,
If at my sole command they this moment were all,
I'd give, though I'm fully aware of their worth,
Could they back from the dead my lost Mary recall.

I'm distrest every noon, now I sit down alone,
And at morn, now with me she arises no more:
With no woman alive after thee would I wive,
Could I flocks and herds gain, and of gold a bright store.

Awhile in green Eirin so pleasant I dwelt,
With her nobles I drank to whom music was dear;
Then left to myself, O how mournful I felt
At the close of my life, with no partner to cheer.

My sole joy and my comfort wast thou 'neath the sun,
Dark gloom, now I'm reft of thee, filleth my mind;
I shall know no more happiness now thou art gone,
O my Mary, of wit and of manners refin'd.

EPIGRAMS BY CAROLAN.

_On Friars_.

WOULD'ST thou on good terms with friars live,
Ever be humble and admiring;
All they ask of thee freely give,
And in return be nought requiring.

_On a Surly Butler_, _who had refused him admission to the cellar_.

O Dermod Flynn, it grieveth me
Thou keepest not Hell's portal;
As long as thou should'st porter be,
Thou would'st admit no mortal.

THE DELIGHTS OF FINN MAC COUL. {187}

_From the Ancient Irish_.

FINN MAC COUL 'mongst his joys did number
To hark to the boom of the dusky hills;
By the wild cascade to be lull'd to slumber,
Which Cuan Na Seilg with its roaring fills.
He lov'd the noise when storms were blowing,
And billows with billows fought furiously;
Of Magh Maom's kine the ceaseless lowing,
And deep from the glen the calves' feeble cry;
The noise of the chase from Slieve Crott pealing,
The hum from the bushes Slieve Cua below,
The voice of the gull o'er the breakers wheeling,
The vulture's scream, over the sea flying slow;
The mariners' song from the distant haven,
The strain from the hill of the pack so free,
From Cnuic Nan Gall the croak of the raven,
The voice from Slieve Mis of the streamlets three;
Young Oscar's voice, to the chase proceeding,
The howl of the dogs, of the deer in quest.
But to recline where the cattle were feeding
That was the delight which pleas'd him best.

TO ICOLMCILL.

_From the Gaelic of MacIntyre_.

ON Icolmcill may blessings pour!
It is the island blest of yore;
Mull's sister-twin in the wild main,
Owning the sway of high Mac-Lean;
The sacred spot, whose fair renown
To many a distant land has flown,
And which receives in courteous way
All, all who thither chance to stray.

There in the grave are many a King
And duine-wassel {191} slumbering;
And bodies, once of giant strength,
Beneath the earth are stretch'd at length;
It is the fate of mortals all
To ashes fine and dust to fall;
I've hope in Christ, for sins who died,
He has their souls beatified.

Now full twelve hundred years, and more,
On dusky wing have flitted o'er,
Since that high morn when Columb grey
Its wall's foundation-stone did lay;
Images still therein remain
And death-memorials carv'd with pain;
Of good hewn stone from top to base,
It shows to Time a dauntless face.

A man this day the pulpit fill'd,
Whose sermon brain and bosom thrill'd,
And all the listening crowd I heard
Praising the mouth which it proffer'd.
Since death has seiz'd on Columb Cill,
And Mull may not possess him still,
There's joy throughout its heathery lands,
In Columb's place that Dougal stands.

THE DYING BARD.

_From the Gaelic_.

O FOR to hear the hunter's tread
With his spear and his dogs the hills among;
In my aged cheek youth flushes red
When the noise of the chase arises strong.

Awakes in my bones the marrow whene'er
I hark to the distant shout and bay;
When peals in my ear, "We've kill'd the deer"--
To the hill-tops boundeth my soul away;

I see the slug-hound tall and gaunt,
Which follow'd me, early and late, so true;
The hills, which it was my delight to haunt,
And the rocks, which rang to my loud halloo.

I see Scoir Eild by the side of the glen,
Where the cuckoo calleth so blithe in May,
And Gorval of pines, renown'd 'mongst men
For the elk and the roe which bound and play.

I see the cave, which receiv'd our feet
So kindly oft from the gloom of night,
Where the blazing tree with its genial heat
Within our bosoms awak'd delight.

On the flesh of the deer we fed our fill--
Our drink was the Treigh, our music its wave;
Though the ghost shriek'd shrill, and bellow'd the hill,
'Twas pleasant, I trow, in that lonely cave.

I see Benn Ard of form so fair,
Of a thousand hills the Monarch proud;
On his side the wild deer make their lair,
His head's the eternal couch of the cloud.

But vision of joy, and art thou flown?
Return for a moment's space, I pray,--
Thou dost not hear--ohone, ohone,--
Hills of my love, farewell for aye.

Farewell, ye youths, so bold and free,
And fare ye well, ye maids divine!
No more I can see ye--yours is the glee
Of the summer, the gloom of the winter mine.

At noon-tide carry me into the sun,
To the bank by the side of the wandering stream,
To rest the shamrock and daisy upon,
And then will return of my youth the dream.

Place ye by my side my harp and shell,
And the shield my fathers in battle bore;
Ye halls, where Oisin and Daoul {197} dwell,
Unclose--for at eve I shall be no more.

THE SONG OF DEIRDRA.

FAREWELL, grey Albyn, much loved land,
I ne'er shall see thy hills again;
Upon those hills I oft would stand
And view the chase sweep o'er the plain.

'Twas pleasant from their tops, I ween,
To see the stag that bounding ran;
And all the rout of hunters keen,
The sons of Usna in the van.

The chiefs of Albyn feasted high,
Amidst them Usna's children shone;
And Nasa kissed in secrecy
The daughter fair of high Dundron.

To her a milk-white doe he sent,
With little fawn that frisked and played,
And once to visit her he went,
As home from Inverness he strayed.

The news was scarcely brought to me
When jealous rage inflamed my mind;
I took my boat and rushed to sea,
For death, for speedy death, inclined.

But swiftly swimming at my stern
Came Ainlie bold and Ardan tall;
Those faithful striplings made me turn
And brought me back to Nasa's hall.

Then thrice he swore upon his arms,
His burnished arms, the foeman's bane,
That he would never wake alarms
In this fond breast of mine again.

Dundron's fair daughter also swore,
And called to witness earth and sky,
That since his love for her was o'er
A maiden she would live and die.

Ah, did she know that slain in fight,
He wets with gore the Irish hill,
How great would be her moan this night,
But greater far would mine be still.

THE WILD WINE.

_From the Gaelic of MacIntyre_.

THE wild wine of nature,
Honey-like in its taste,
The genial, fair, thin element
Filtering through the sands,
Which is sweeter than cinnamon,
And is well-known to us hunters.
O, that eternal, healing draught,
Which comes from under the earth,
Which contains abundance of good
And costs no money!

* * * * *

PRINTED BY JARROLD AND SONS, LTD.,
NORWICH, ENGLAND

FOOTNOTES.

{17} "The Visions of the Sleeping Bard:" Being Ellis Wynne's "Gweledigaethau y Bardd Cwsg," Translated by Robert Gwyneddon Davies. Carnarvon (Welsh Publishing Co., Ltd.), 1909.

{34} Emrys, King of Britain, lying sick at Canterbury, a Saxon of the name of Eppa disguised himself as a religious person, and pretending to be versed in medicine, obtained admission to the Monarch and administered to him a poisoned draught, of which he died.

{39} Glyndwr signifies watery valley.

{49a} Written in the fifth century.

{49b} The British, like many other nations, whose early history is involved in obscurity, claim a Trojan descent.

{54a} Awen, or poetic genius, which he is said to have imbibed in his childhood, whilst employed in watching the cauldron of the Sorceress Cridwen.

{54b} I was but a child, but am now Taliesin,--Taliesin signifies: brow of brightness.

{64} The harp.

{74} Ale.

{137} The "streams of generosity" were those of Dafydd ab Thomas Vychan. (See "Wild Wales," chap. lxxxviii.)--_Ed._

{167} "What is _hiraeth_? Hiraeth is longing, the mourning, consuming feeling which one experiences for the loss of a beloved object."--_G.B._

{187} The personage who figures in the splendid forgeries of MacPherson under the name of Fingal.

{191} The Gaelic word for nobleman.

{197} Ancient bards, to whose mansion, in the clouds, the speaker hopes that his spirit will be received.