Were with you as good’s a palace.
O, to hear my true-love singing,
Sweet as sounds of trumpets ringing;
Like the sway of ocean swelling
Rolled his deep voice round our dwelling.
O! to hear the echoes pealing
Round our green and fairy shealing,
When the three, with soaring chorus,
Passed the silent skylark o’er us.
Echo now, sleep, morn and even--
Lark alone enchant the heaven!
Ardan’s lips are scant of breath,
Neesa’s tongue is cold in death.
Stag, exult on glen and mountain--
Salmon, leap from loch to fountain--
Heron, in the free air warm ye--
Usnach’s sons no more will harm ye!
Erin’s stay no more you are,
Rulers of the ridge of war;
Never more ’twill be your fate
To keep the beam of battle straight!
Woe is me! by fraud and wrong,
Traitors false and tyrants strong,
Fell Clan Usnach, bought and sold,
For Barach’s feast and Conor’s gold!
Woe to Eman, roof and wall!
Woe to Red Branch, hearth and hall!--
Tenfold woe and black dishonour
To the foul and false Clan Conor!
Dig the grave both wide and deep,
Sick I am, and fain would sleep!
Dig the grave and make it ready,
Lay me on my true-love’s body.
The Lament of Queen Maev.
Raise the Cromlech high!
Mac Moghcorb is slain,
And other men’s renown
Has leave to live again.
Cold at last he lies
’Neath the burial stone.
All the blood he shed
Could not save his own.
Stately, strong he went,
Through his nobles all,
When we paced together
Up the banquet-hall.
Dazzling white as lime,
Was his body fair,
Cherry-red his cheeks,
Raven-black his hair.
Razor-sharp his spear,
And the shield he bore,
High as champion’s head--
His arm was like an oar.
Never aught but truth
Spake my noble king;
Valour all his trust
In all his warfaring.
As the forkèd pole
Holds the roof-tree’s weight,
So my hero’s arm
Held the battle straight.
Terror went before him,
Death behind his back,
Well the wolves of Erinn
Knew his chariot’s track.
[Sidenote: ANCIENT ERSE]
Seven bloody battles
He broke upon his foes,
In each a hundred heroes
Fell beneath his blows.
Once he fought at Fossud,
Thrice at Ath-finn-fail.
’Twas my king that conquered
At bloody Ath-an-Scaìl.
At the Boundary Stream
Fought the Royal Hound,
And for Bernas battle
Stands his name renowned.
Here he fought with Leinster--
Last of all his frays--
On the Hill of Cucorb’s Fate
High his Cromlech raise.
The March of the Faerie Host.
In well-devised battle array,
Ahead of their fair chieftain
They march amidst blue spears,
White curly-headed bands.
They scatter the battalions of the foe,
They ravage every land I have attacked,
Splendidly they march to combat
An impetuous, distinguished, avenging host!
No wonder though their strength be great:
Sons of kings and queens are one and all.
On all their heads are
Beautiful golden-yellow manes:
With smooth, comely bodies,
With bright blue-starred eyes,
With pure crystal teeth,
With thin red lips:
Good they are at man-slaying.
[Sidenote: ANCIENT ERSE]
Vision of a Fair Woman.
(Aisling air Dhreach Mna.)
Tell us some of the charms of the stars:
Close and well set were her ivory teeth;
White as the canna upon the moor
Was her bosom the tartan bright beneath.
Her well-rounded forehead shone
Soft and fair as the mountain-snow;
Her two breasts were heaving full;
To them did the hearts of heroes flow.
Her lips were ruddier than the rose;
Tender and tunefully sweet her tongue;
White as the foam adown her side
Her delicate fingers extended hung.
Smooth as the dusky down of the elk
Appeared her shady eyebrows to me;
Lovely her cheeks were, like berries red;
From every guile she was wholly free.
Her countenance looked like the gentle buds
Unfolding their beauty in early spring;
Her yellow locks like the gold-browed hills;
And her eyes like the radiance the sunbeams bring.
The Fian Banners.
The Norland King stood on the height
And scanned the rolling sea;
He proudly eyed his gallant ships
That rode triumphantly.
And then he looked where lay his camp,
Along the rocky coast,
And where were seen the heroes brave
Of Lochlin’s famous host.
Then to the land he turn’d, and there
A fierce-like hero came;
Above him was a flag of gold,
That waved and shone like flame.
“Sweet bard,” thus spoke the Norland King,
“What banner comes in sight?
The valiant chief that leads the host,
Who is that man of might?”
“That,” said the bard, “is young MacDoon,
His is that banner bright;
When forth the Féinn to battle go,
He’s foremost in the fight.”
“Sweet bard, another comes; I see
A blood-red banner toss’d
Above a mighty hero’s head
Who waves it o’er a host?”
“That banner,” quoth the bard, “belongs
To good and valiant Rayne;
Beneath it feet are bathed in blood
And heads are cleft in twain.”
“Sweet bard, what banner now I see
A leader fierce and strong
Behind it moves with heroes brave
Who furious round him throng?”
“That is the banner of Great Gaul:
That silken shred of gold,
Is first to march and last to turn,
And flight ne’er stained its fold.”
“Sweet bard, another now I see,
High o’er a host it glows,
Tell whether it has ever shone
O’er fields of slaughtered foes?”
“That gory flag is Cailt’s,” quoth he,
“It proudly peers in sight;
It won its fame on many a field
In fierce and bloody fight.”
“Sweet bard, another still I see;
A host it flutters o’er;
Like bird above the roaring surge
That laves the storm-swept shore.”
“The Broom of Peril,” quoth the bard,
“Young Oscur’s banner, see:
Amidst the conflict of dread chiefs
The proudest name has he.”
The banner of great Fionn we raised;
The Sunbeam gleaming far,
With golden spangles of renown
From many a field of war.
The flag was fastened to its staff
With nine strong chains of gold,
With nine times nine chiefs for each chain;
Before it foes oft rolled.
“Redeem your pledge to me,” said Fionn;
“And show your deeds of might
To Lochlin as you did before
In many a gory fight.”
Like torrents from the mountain heights
That roll resistless on;
So down upon the foe we rushed,
And victory won.
[Sidenote: OLD GAELIC]
The Rune of St Patrick.
“The Faedh Fiada”; or, “The Cry of the Deer.”
At Tara to-day in this fateful hour
I place all Heaven with its power,
And the sun with its brightness,
And the snow with its whiteness,
And fire with all the strength it hath,
And lightning with its rapid wrath,
And the winds with their swiftness along their path,
And the sea with its deepness,
And the rocks with their steepness,
And the earth with its starkness:
All these I place,
By God’s almighty help and grace,
Between myself and the powers of darkness.
Columcille cecenit.
O, Son of my God, what a pride, what a pleasure
To plough the blue sea!
The waves of the fountain of deluge to measure
Dear Eiré to thee.
We are rounding Moy-n-Olurg, we sweep by its head, and
We plunge through Loch Foyle,
Whose swans could enchant with their music the dead, and
Make pleasure of toil.
The host of the gulls come with joyous commotion
And screaming and sport,
I welcome my own “Dewy-Red” from the ocean
Arriving in port.[7]
O Eiré, were wealth my desire, what a wealth were
To gain far from thee,
In the land of the stranger, but there even health were
A sickness to me!
Alas for the voyage O high King of Heaven
Enjoined upon me,
For that I on the red plain of bloody Cooldrevin
Was present to see.
How happy the son is of Dima; no sorrow
For him is designed,
He is having, this hour, round his own hill in Durrow
The wish of his mind.
The sounds of the winds in the elms, like the strings of
A harp being played,
The note of the blackbird that claps with the wings of
Delight in the glade.
[Sidenote: OLD GAELIC]
With him in Ros-Grencha the cattle are lowing
At earliest dawn,
On the brink of the summer the pigeons are cooing
And doves in the lawn.
Three things am I leaving behind me, the very
Most dear that I know,
Tir-Leedach I’m leaving, and Durrow and Derry,
Alas, I must go!
Yet my visit and feasting with Comgall have eased me
At Cainneach’s right hand,
And all but thy government, Eiré, has pleased me,
Thou waterfall land.
Columcille fecit.
Delightful would it be to me to be in Uchd Ailiun
On the pinnacle of a rock,
That I might often see
The face of the ocean;
That I might see its heaving waves
Over the wide ocean,
When they chant music to their Father
Upon the world’s course;
That I might see its level sparkling strand,
It would be no cause of sorrow;
That I might hear the song of the wonderful birds,
Source of happiness;
That I might hear the thunder of the crowding waves
Upon the rocks;
That I might hear the roar by the side of the church
Of the surrounding sea;
That I might see its noble flocks
Over the watery ocean;
That I might see the sea-monsters,
The greatest of all wonders;
That I might see its ebb and flood
In their career;
That my mystical name might be, I say,
=Cul ri Erin=;[8]
That contrition might come upon my heart
Upon looking at her;
That I might bewail my evils all,
Though it were difficult to compute them;
That I might bless the Lord
Who conserves all,
Heaven with its countless bright orders,
Land, strand and flood;
That I might search the books all,
That would be good for my soul;
At times kneeling to beloved Heaven;
At times psalm singing;
At times contemplating the King of Heaven,
Holy the chief;
At times at work without compulsion,
This would be delightful.
At times plucking duilisc from the rocks;
At times at fishing;
At times giving food to the poor;
At times in a =carcair=:[9]
The best advice in the presence of God
To me has been vouchsafed.
The King whose servant I am will not let
Anything deceive me.
The Song of Murdoch the Monk.
Murdoch, whet thy knife, that we may shave our crowns to the Great King.
Let us sweetly give our vow, and the hair of both our
heads to the Trinity.
I will shave mine to Mary; this is the doing of a true heart:
To Mary shave thou these locks, well-formed, soft-eyed man.
Seldom hast thou had, handsome man, a knife on thy hair to shave it;
Oftener has a sweet, soft queen comb’d her hair beside thee.
Whenever it was that we did bathe, with Brian of the well-curled locks,
And once on a time that I did bathe at the well of the
fair-haired Boroimhe,
I strove in swimming with Ua Chais, on the cold waters of the Fergus.
When he came ashore from the stream, Ua Chais and I strove in a race:
These two knives, one to each, were given us by Duncan Cairbreach;
No knives were better: shave gently then, Murdoch.
Whet your sword, Cathal, which wins the fertile Banva;
Ne’er was thy wrath heard without fighting, brave, red-handed Cathal.
Preserve our shaved heads from cold and from heat, gentle
daughter of Iodehim,
Preserve us in the land of heat, softest branch of Mary.
[Sidenote: DOMHNULL MAC FHIONNLAIDH]
The Aged Bard’s Wish.
(Miann a’ Bhaird Aosda.)
O, lay me by the gentle stream
Which glides with stealing course;
Lay my head beneath the shady boughs,
And thou, O sun, be mild upon my rest.
There, in the flowery grass,
Where the breeze sighs softly on the bank,
My feet shall be bathed with the dew
When it falls on the silent vale.
There, on my lone green heap,
The primrose and the daisy shall bloom over my head,
And the wild bright star of St John
Shall bend beside my cheek.
Above, on the steeps of the glen,
Green flowering boughs shall spread,
And sweet, from the still grey craigs,
The birds shall pour their songs.
There, from the ivied craig,
The gushing spring shall flow,
And the son of the rock shall repeat
The murmur of its fall.
The hinds shall call around my bed;
The hill shall answer to their voice,
When a thousand shall descend on the field,
And feed around my rest.
The calves shall sport beside me
By the stream of the level plain,
And the little kids, weary of their strife,
Shall sleep beneath my arm.
Far in the gentle breeze
The stag cries on the field;
The herds answer on the hill,
And descend to meet the sound.
I hear the steps of the hunter!
His whistling darts--his dog upon the hill.
The joy of youth returns to my cheek
At the sound of the coming chase!
My strength returns at the sounds of the wood;
The cry of hounds--the thrill of strings.
Hark! the death-shout--“=The deer has fallen!=”
I spring to life on the hill!
I see the bounding dog,
My companion on the heath;
The beloved hill of our chase,
The echoing craig of woods.
I see the sheltering cave
Which often received us from the night,
When the glowing tree and the joyful cup
Revived us with their cheer.
Glad was the smoking feast of deer,
Our drink was from Loch Treig, our music its hum of waves;
Though ghosts shrieked on the echoing hills,
Sweet was our rest in the cave.
I see the mighty mountain,
Chief of a thousand hills;
The dream of deer is in its locks,
Its head is the bed of clouds.
I see the ridge of hinds, the steep of the sloping glen,
The wood of cuckoos at its foot,
The blue height of a thousand pines,
Of wolves, and roes, and elks.
[Sidenote: DOMHNULL MAC FHIONNLAIDH]
Like the breeze on the lake of firs
The little ducks skim on the pool,
At its head is the strath of pines,
The red rowan bends on its bank.
There, on the gliding wave,
The fair swan spreads her wing,
The broad white wing which never fails
When she soars amidst the clouds.
Far wandering over ocean
She seeks the cold dwelling of seals,
Where no sail bends the mast,
Nor prow divides the wave.
Come to the woody hills
With the lament of thy love;
Return, O swan, from the isle of waves,
And sing from thy course on high.
Raise thy mournful song--
Pour the sad tale of thy grief;
The son of the rock shall hear the sound,
And repeat thy strain of woe.
Spread thy wing over ocean,
Mount up on the strength of the winds;
Pleasant to my ear is thy sound,
The song of thy wounded heart.
O youth! thou who hast departed,
And left my grey and helpless hairs,
What land has heard on its winds
Thy cry come o’er its rocks?
Are the tears in thy eye, O maiden?
Thou of the lovely brow and lily hand;
Brightness be around thee for ever!
Thou shalt return no more from the narrow bed!
Tell me, O winds! since now I see them not,
Where grow the murmuring reeds?
The reeds which sigh where rest the trout
On their still transparent fins.
O raise and bear me on your hands,
Lay my head beneath the young boughs,
That their shade may veil my eyes
When the sun shall rise on high.
And thou, O gentle sleep!
Whose course is with the stars of night;
Be near with thy dreams of song
To bring back my days of joy.
My soul beholds the maid!
In the shade of the mighty oak,
Her white hand beneath her golden hair,
Her soft eye on her beloved.
He is near--but she is silent,
His beating heart is lost in song,
Their souls beam from their eyes--
Deer stand on the hill!
The song has ceased!--
Their bosoms meet;--
Like the young and stainless rose
Her lips are pressed to his!--
Blessed be that commune sweet!
Recalling the joy which returns no more--
Blessed be thy soul, my love!
Thou maid with the bright flowing locks.
Hast thou forsaken me, O dream!
Once more return again!
Alas! thou art gone, and I am sad--
Bless thee, my love--farewell!
[Sidenote: DOMHNULL MAC FHIONNLAIDH]
Friends of my youth, farewell!
Farewell, ye maids of love!
I see you now no more--with you is summer still,
With me--the winter night!
O lay me by the roaring fall,
By the sound of the murmuring craig,
Let the cruit and the shell be near,
And the shield of my father’s wars.
O breeze of Ocean come,
With the sound of thy gentle course,
Raise me on thy wings, O wind,
And bear me to the isle of rest;
Where the heroes of old are gone,
To the sleep which shall wake no more
Open the hall of Ossian and Daol--
The night is come--the bard departs!
Behold my dim grey mist!--
I go to the dwelling of bards on the hill!
Give me the airy cruit and shell for the way--
And now--my own loved cruit and shell--farewell!
Ossian Sang.
Sweet is the voice in the land of gold,
And sweeter the music of birds that soar,
When the cry of the heron is heard on the wold,
And the waves break softly on Bundatrore.
Down floats on the murmuring of the breeze
The call of the cuckoo from Cossahun,
The blackbird is warbling among the trees,
And soft is the kiss of the warming sun.
The cry of the eagle of Assaroe
O’er the court of Mac Morne to me is sweet,
And sweet is the cry of the bird below
Where the wave and the wind and the tall cliff meet.
Finn mac Cool is the father of me,
Whom seven battalions of Fenians fear:
When he launches his hounds on the open lea
Grand is their cry as they rouse the deer.
[Sidenote: OLD GAELIC]
Fingal and Ros-crana.
ROS-CRANA.
By night, came a dream to Ros-crana! I feel my beating soul. No vision
of the forms of the dead came to the blue eyes of Erin. But, rising from
the wave of the north, I beheld him bright in his locks. I beheld the
son of the king. My beating soul is high. I laid my head down in night:
again ascended the form. Why delayest thou thy coming, young rider of
stormy waves!
But, there, far-distant, he comes; where seas roll their green ridges in
mist! Young dweller of my soul; why dost thou delay----
FINGAL.
It was the soft voice of Moi-lena! the pleasant breeze of the valley of
roes! But why dost thou hide thee in shades? Young love of heroes, rise.
Are not thy steps covered with light? In thy groves thou appearest,
Ros-crana, like the sun in the gathering of clouds. Why dost thou hide
thee in shades? Young love of heroes, rise.
ROS-CRANA.
My fluttering soul is high! Let me turn from steps of the king. He has
heard my secret voice, and shall my blue eyes roll in his presence? Roe
of the hill of moss, toward thy dwelling I move. Meet me, ye breezes of
Mora! as I move through the valley of the winds. But why should he
ascend his ocean? Son of heroes, my soul is thine! my steps shall not
move to the desert; the light of Ros-crana is here.
FINGAL.
It was the light tread of a ghost, the fair dweller of eddying winds.
Why deceivest thou me with thy voice? Here let me rest in shades.
Shouldst thou stretch thy white arm from thy grove, thou sunbeam of
Cormac of Erin----
ROS-CRANA.
He is gone; and my blue eyes are dim; faint-rolling, in all my tears.
But, there, I behold him, alone; king of Selma, my soul is thine. Ah me!
what clanging of armour! Colc-ulla of Atha is near!
[Sidenote: OLD GAELIC]
The Night-Song of the Bards.
[Five bards passing the night in the house of a chief, who was a poet
himself, went severally to make their observations on, and returned with
an extempore description of, night.]
FIRST BARD.
Night is dull and dark. The clouds rest on the hills. No star with green
trembling beam; no moon looks from the sky. I hear the blast in the
wood, but I hear it distant far. The stream of the valley murmurs; but
its murmur is sullen and sad. From the tree at the grave of the dead the
long-howling owl is heard. I see a dim form on the plain! It is a ghost!
it fades, it flies. Some funeral shall pass this way: the meteor marks
the path.
The distant dog is howling from the hut of the hill. The stag lies on
the mountain moss: the hind is at his side. She hears the wind in his
branchy horns. She starts, but lies again.
The roe is in the cleft of the rock; the heath-cock’s head is beneath
his wing. No beast, no bird is abroad, but the owl and the howling fox:
she on a leafless tree; he in a cloud on the hill.
Dark, panting, trembling, sad, the traveller has lost his way. Through
shrubs, through thorns, he goes, along the gurgling rill. He fears the
rock and the fen. He fears the ghost of night. The old tree groans to
the blast; the falling branch resounds. The wind drives the withered
burrs, clung together, along the grass. It is the light tread of a
ghost! He trembles amidst the night.
Dark, dusky, howling, is night, cloudy, windy, and full of ghosts! The
dead are abroad! my friends, receive me from the night.
SECOND BARD.
The wind is up, the shower descends. The spirit of the mountain shrieks.
Woods fall from high. Windows flap.[10] The growing river roars. The
traveller attempts the ford. Hark! that shriek! he dies! The storm
drives the horse from the hill, the goat, the lowing cow. They tremble
as drives the shower, beside the shouldering bank.
The hunter starts from sleep, in his lonely hut; he wakes the fire
decayed. His wet dogs smoke around him. He fills the chinks with heath.
Loud roar two mountain streams which meet beside his booth.[11]
Sad on the side of a hill the wandering shepherd sits. The tree resounds
above him. The stream roars down the rock. He waits for the rising moon
to guide him to his home.
Ghosts ride on the storm to-night. Sweet is their voice between the
squalls of wind. Their songs are of other worlds.
The rain is past. The dry wind blows. Streams roar, and windows flap.
Cold drops fall from the roof. I see the starry sky. But the shower
gathers again. The west is gloomy and dark. Night is stormy and dismal;
receive me, my friends, from night.
THIRD BARD.
The wind still sounds between the hills, and whistles through the grass
of the rock. The firs fall from their place. The turfy hut is torn. The
clouds, divided, fly over the sky, and show the burning stars. The
meteor, token of death! flies sparkling through the gloom. It rests on
the hill. I see the withered fern, the dark-browed rock, the fallen oak.
Who is that in his shroud beneath the tree, by the stream?
The waves dark-tumble on the lake, and lash its rocky sides. The boat is
brimful in the cove; the oars on the rocking tide. A maid sits sad
beside the rock, and eyes the rolling stream. Her lover promised to
come. She saw his boat, when yet it was light, on the lake. Is this his
broken boat on the shore? Are these his groans on the wind?
Hark! the hail rattles around. The flaky snow descends. The tops of the
hills are white. The stormy winds abate. Various is the night and cold;
receive me, my friends, from night.
FOURTH BARD.
Night is calm and fair; blue, starry, settled is night. The winds, with
the clouds, are gone. They sink behind the hill. The moon is up on the
mountain. Trees glister, streams shine on the rock. Bright rolls the
settled lake; bright the stream of the vale.
I see the trees overturned; the shocks of corn on the plain. The wakeful
hind rebuilds the shocks, and whistles on the distant field.
Calm, settled, fair is night! Who comes from the place of the dead? That
form with the robe of snow, white arms, and dark-brown hair! It is the
daughter of the chief of the people: she that lately fell! Come, let us
view thee, O maid! Thou that hast been the delight of heroes! The blast
drives the phantom away; white, without form, it ascends the hill.
The breezes drive the blue mist, slowly, over the narrow vale. It rises
on the hill, and joins its head to heaven. Night is settled, calm, blue,
starry, bright with the moon. Receive me not, my friends, for lovely is
the night.
FIFTH BARD.
Night is calm, but dreary. The moon is in a cloud in the west. Slow
moves that pale beam along the shaded hill. The distant wave is heard.
The torrent murmurs on the rock. The cock is heard from the booth.[12]
More than half the night is past. The house-wife, groping in the gloom,
re-kindles the settled fire. The hunter thinks that day approaches, and
calls his bounding dogs. He ascends the hill, and whistles on his way. A
blast removes the cloud. He sees the starry plough of the north. Much of
the night is to pass. He nods by the mossy rock.
Hark! the whirlwind is in the wood! A low murmur in the vale! It is the
mighty army of the dead returning from the air.
The moon rests behind the hill. The beam is still on that lofty rock.
Long are the shadows of the trees. Now it is dark over all. Night is
dreary, silent, and dark; receive me, my friends, from night.
THE CHIEF.
Let clouds rest on the hills: spirits fly, and travellers fear. Let the
winds of the woods arise, the sounding storms descend. Roar streams and
windows flap, and green-winged meteors fly! Rise the pale moon from
behind her hills, or inclose her head in clouds! Night is alike to me,
blue, stormy, or gloomy the sky. Night flies before the beam, when it is
poured on the hill. The young day returns from his clouds, but we return
no more.
Where are our chiefs of old? Where are our kings of mighty name? The
fields of their battles are silent. Scarce their mossy tombs remain. We
shall also be forgot. This lofty house shall fall. Our sons shall not
behold the ruins in grass. They shall ask of the aged, “Where stood the
walls of our fathers?”