make an incantation for thee!
I, the druid, who set out letters in Ogham;
I, who part combatants;
I, who approach the fairy-mounds to seek a cunning satirist, that
he may compose chants with me. I am the wind
on the sea.
FOOTNOTES:
[88] Or dolmen? Professor John MacNeill, on whose readings the
above is founded, notes that a dolmen near Slieve Mis in Co. Antrim is
called Ticloy (_toigh cloiche_), and in the local Scotch dialect "the
stane-hoose."
[89] See note, p. 349.
[90] _i.e._ the fish, here also called "Tethra's kine"; this
poem is generally followed by an incantation for good fishing, to which
these phrases doubtless refer.
THE SONG OF CHILDBIRTH
O Ness, let all men stand,
The hour of thy peril is at hand;
Pale daughter of old Eochad Buidhe the mild
We rise to greet thy child!
Wife of the ruddy palms
Let not thy mind be filled with terror's qualms;
The head of hosts, the one
Whom thousands shall extol, shall be thy son.
In the same timely hour upon this earth
He and the King of the World have their birth;
Through the long ages' gloom
Now and to the day of doom
Praises shall echo through the realm of life.
Heroes, at sight of him, cease their strife;
Hostages they twain shall never be
The Christ and he.
On the plain of Inisfáil he shall come forth,
On the flagstone of the meadow to the North.
Hostages every battle-chief to him will send,
Through the great world his glory will extend;
The king of grace is he,
The Hound of Ulster he;
But and if he falls,
Darkness and woe descend on Erin's halls.
Conchobhar, son of Ness "ungentle," is his name;
Raids and red routs his valour will proclaim.
There he will find his death
Where the expiring breath
Of the suffering God his vengeful sword demands,
In the dark hour upon the Holy Lands;[91]
Shining his red sword's track,
Over the sloping plain of Liam's back.
FOOTNOTES:
[91] King Conchobhar was believed to be born in the same year
as Jesus Christ, and to have met his death in endeavouring to avenge
the death of Christ.
GREETING TO THE NEW-BORN BABE
Welcome, little stranger,
Born in pain and danger,
He will be our gracious Lord,
Son of gentle Cathva.
Son of gentle Cathva,
From the fort of Brug na Brat;
Son of valorous Ness the Young,
My son, and my grandson.
My son, and my grandson,
Of the world the shining One,
He of old Rath Line the king,
Poet-prince, my offspring.
Poet-prince, my offspring,
Overseas thy hosts thou wilt fling;
Little songster from the Brug,
Little kid, we welcome you.
WHAT IS LOVE?
From the "Wooing of Etain."
A love much-enduring through a year is my love,
It is grief close-hidden,[92]
It is stretching of strength beyond its bounds,
It is (fills?) the four quarters of the world;
It is the highest height of heaven;
It is breaking of the neck,
It is battle with a spectre,
It is drowning with water,
It is a race against heaven,
It is champion-feats beneath the sea,
It is wooing the echo;
So is my love, and my passion, and my devotion to her to whom
I gave them.
FOOTNOTES:
[92] Lit. "beneath the skin."
SUMMONS TO CUCHULAIN
From the "Sickbed of Cuchulain."
Arise, O Champion of Ulster!
In joyous health mayest thou awake;
Look thou on Macha's King, beloved,
Thy heavy slumber likes him not.
Behold his shoulder full of brightness,
Behold his horns for battle-array,[93]
Behold his chariots sweeping the glens,
Behold the movement of his chess-warriors.[94]
Behold his champions in their might,
Behold his maiden-troop, tall and gentle,
Behold his kings--a storm of war--
Behold his honourable queens.
Look forth! the winter has begun!
Note thou each wonder in its turn,
Behold, for it avails thee well,
Its cold, its length, its want of colour!
This heavy slumber is decay, it is not good;
Exhaustion from unequal strife;
Repose too lengthened is "a drop when one is filled,"[95]
Weakness like this is next to death.[96]
Awake from sleep, the peace which drinkers seek,
With mighty ardour throw it off;
Many smooth speeches woo thee here,
Arise, O Champion of Ulster!
FOOTNOTES:
[93] Or "his drinking-horns filled with ale" according to
another reading.
[94] Lit. "chess-Fians."
[95] This seems to be a proverb or saw.
[96] _Tanaisi d'éc_, lit. "second to death." The "tanist"
stood next to the chief, and was his successor.
LAEGH'S DESCRIPTION OF FAIRY-LAND
From the "Sickbed of Cuchulain."
I came with joyous sprightly steps,
--Wondrous the place, though its fame was known,--
Till I reached the cairn where, 'mid scores of bands,
I found Labra of the flowing hair.
I found him seated at the cairn,
Ringed round by thousands of weaponed men,
Yellow the hair on him, beauteous its hue,
A ball of ruddy gold enclosing it.
After a time he recognised me,
In the purple, five-folded mantle,
He spake to me, "Wilt thou come with me
To the house wherein is Failbe Fand?"
Two kings are in the house,
Failbe Fand and Labra,
Three fifties surround each one of them,
That the full sum of the one house.
Fifty beds on the right side,
With fifty nobles (?) in them,
Fifty beds on the left side,
With fifty in them also.
Copper are the borders of the beds,
White the pillars overlaid with gold;
This the candle in their midst,
A lustrous precious stone.
At the door westward
In the place where sets the sun,
Stand a herd of grey palfreys, dappled their manes,
And another herd purple-brown.
There stand at the Eastern door
Three ancient trees of purple pure,
From them the sweet, everlasting birds
Call to the lads of the kingly rath.
At the door of the liss there is a tree,
Out of which there sounds sweet harmony,
A tree of silver with the shining of the sun upon it,
Its lustrous splendour like to gold.
Three twenties of trees are there,
Their crests swing together but do not clash,
From each of those trees three hundred are fed
With fruits many-tasted, that have cast their rind.
There is a well in the noble (?) sídh;
There are thrice fifty mantles of various hue,
And a clasp of gold, all lustrous,
Holds the corner[97] of each coloured cloak.
A vat there is of heady mead
Being dispensed to the household;
Still it lasts, in unchanged wise,
Full to the brim, everlastingly.
There is a maiden in the noble (?) house
Surpassing the women of Éire,
She steps forward, with yellow hair,
Beautiful, many-gifted she.
Her discourse with each in turn
Is beauteous, is marvellous,
The heart of each one breaks
With longing and love for her.
The noble maiden said:
"Who is that youth whom we do not know?
If thou be he, come hither awhile--
The gillie of the Man from Murthemne."[98]
I went to her slowly, slowly,
Fear for my honour seized me,
She asked me, "Comes he hither,
The famous son of Dechtire?"
(LAEGH _addresses_ CUCHULAIN)
Alas, that he[99] went not long ago,
And every person asking it,
That he might see, as it is,
The mighty house that I have seen.
If all Éire were mine,
And the kingdom of Magh Breg of gold,
I would give it (no small test)
Could I frequent the place where I have been!
FOOTNOTES:
[97] Lit. "ear."
[98] _i.e._ Cuchulain, whose home-lands lay in the Plain
of Murthemne, in the district of Co. Louth; Laegh was Cuchulain's
charioteer.
[99] _i.e._ Cuchulain himself.
THE LAMENTATION OF FAND WHEN SHE IS ABOUT TO LEAVE CUCHULAIN
From the "Sickbed of Cuchulain."
It is I who must go on this journey,
Ou great necessity were best for me;
Though another should have an equal fame
Happier for me could I remain.
Happier it were for me to be here,
Subject to thee without reproach,
Than to go,--though strange it may seem to thee,--
To the royal seat of Aed Abrat.
The man is thine, O Emer,
He has broken from me, O noble wife,
No less, the thing that my hand cannot reach,
I am fated to desire it.
Many men were seeking me
Both in shelters and in secret places;
My tryst was never made with them,
Because I myself was high-minded.
Joyless she who gives love to one
Who does not heed her love;
It were better for her to be destroyed
If she be not loved as she loves.
With fifty women hast thou come hither,
Noble Emer, of the yellow locks,
To overthrow Fand, it were not well
To kill her in her misery.
Three times fifty have I there,
--Beautiful, marriageable women,--
Together with me in the fort:
They will not abandon me.
MIDER'S CALL TO FAIRY-LAND
From the "Wooing of Etain."
O Befind, wilt thou come with me,
To the wondrous land of melody?
The crown of their head like the primrose hair,
Their bodies below as the colour of snow.
There in that land is no "mine" or "thine,"
White the teeth there, eyebrows black,
Brilliant the eyes--great is the host--
And each cheek the hue of the foxglove.
How heady soever the ale of Inis Fál
More intoxicating is the ale of the Great Land;
A marvel among lands the land of which I speak,
No young man there enters on old age.
Like the purple of the plains each neck,
Like the ousel's egg the colour of the eye;
Though fair to the sight are the Plains of Fál
They are a desert to him who has known the Great Plain.
Warm, sweet streams across the country,
Choice of mead and wine,
Distinguished beings who know no stain,
Conception without sin, without lust.
We behold everyone on every side,
And none beholds us;
The gloom of Adam's transgression it is
Conceals us from their reckoning.
O Woman, if thou come among my strong people,
A golden top will crown thy head;
Fresh swine-flesh, new milk and ale for drink
Thou shalt have with me, O woman fair!
THE SONG OF THE FAIRIES
_When they made the road across the bog of Lamrach for
Mider, their King_.
Pile on the soil; thrust on the soil:
Red are the oxen around who toil:
Heavy the troops that my words obey;
Heavy they seem, and yet men are they.
Strongly, as piles, are the tree-trunks placed:
Red are the wattles above them laced:
Tired are your hands, and your glances slant;
One woman's winning this toil may grant!
Oxen ye are, but revenge shall see;
Men who are white shall your servants be;
Rushes from Teffa are cleared away;
Grief is the price that the man shall pay:
Stones have been cleared from the rough Meath ground;
Where shall the gain or the harm be found?
Thrust it in hand! Force it in hand!
Nobles this night, as an ox-troop, stand;
Hard is the task that is asked, and who
From the bridging of Lamrach shall gain, or rue?
A. H. LEAHY.
THE GREAT LAMENTATION OF DEIRDRE FOR THE SONS OF USNA
"As to Deirdre, she was a year in the household of Conchobar, after the
death of the Sons of Usna. And though it might be a little thing to
raise her head or to bring a smile over her lip, never once did she do
it through all that space of time.... She took not sufficiency of food
or sleep, nor lifted her head from her knee. When people of amusement
were sent to her, she would break out into lamentation:--
Splendid in your eyes may be the impetuous champions
Who resort to Emain after a foray;
More brilliant yet was the return
Of Usna's heroes to their home!
Noisi bearing pleasant mead of hazel-nuts;
I myself bathed him at the fire;
Ardan bore an ox or boar of goodly size,
Ainle, a load of faggots on his stately back.
Sweet though the excellent mead be found
Drunk by the son of Ness of mighty conflicts;
I have shared ere now, from a chase on the borders,
Abundant provender more delicious!
When for the cooking-hearth noble Noisi
Unbound the faggots on the forest hero-board,
More pleasant than honey was each food,
Better than all other the spoil brought in by Usna's sons.
How melodious soever at every time
May be the sound of pipes and horns,
Here to-day I make my confession,
I have heard music sweeter far!
Here with Conchobar the king
Sweet the sound of pipes and horns;
More melodious to me the music,
Famous and entrancing, of Usna's sons.
The sound of the wave was the voice of Noisi,
Melodious music that wearied not ever;
Mellow the rich-toned notes of Ardan,
Or the deep chant of Ainle through the hunting-booth.
They have laid Noisi in the grave;
Woeful to me was that convey,[100]
The company whose act poured out for them
The venomed draught from which they died.
Loved one of the well-trimmed beard! most fair is thy renown!
Shapely one, though thy renown be fair!
Alas! to-day I rise not up
To greet the coming of Usna's sons.
Beloved thy firm and upright mind!
Beloved, high champion, modest-hearted,
After our wandering through the forests of Fál,[101]
Gentle the caress of midnight.
Dear the grey eye, a woman's love;
Though stern of aspect to the foe!
As we passed through the trees to the simple tryst,
Delightful thy deep notes across the sombre woods!
I sleep no more!
No more I stain my finger-nails with red;
No greeting comes to me who watch--
The sons of Usna return no more.
I sleep not!
Through half the wakeful night
My mind is wandering out amongst the hosts;
Yet more than that, I neither eat nor smile.
For me to-day no instant of deep joy,
Nor noble house, nor rich adornments please;
In Emain's gatherings of her mighty men
I find no peace, nor pleasure, nor repose.
Splendid as in your eyes may be the impetuous champions
Who resort to Emain after a foray;
More brilliant yet was the return
Of Usna's heroes to their home!"
When King Conchobar sought to soothe her, she would answer:
"What, O Conchobar, of thee?
To me nought but tears and lamentation hast thou meted out;
This is my life, so long as life shall last;
Thy love for me is as a flame put out.[102]
He who to me was fairest under heaven,
He who was most beloved,
Thou hast torn him from me, great was the injury,
I see him not until I die.
The secret of my grief, that it is gone,
The form of Usna's son revealed to me;
A pile I see dark-black above a corpse,
Bright and well known to me beyond all else.
* * * * *
Break not, my heart, to-day!
I sink ere long into an early grave;
Like to the strong sea-wave
The grief that binds me, if thou but knowest, O King!
What, O Conchobar, of thee?
To me nought but tears and lamentation hast thou meted out;
This is my life, so long as life shall last;
Thy love, methinks, is as a flame put out."
FOOTNOTES:
[100] _i.e._ Fergus mac Roy and his sons, who induced the sons
of Usna to return with them to Ireland, where they were slain by King
Conchobar.
[101] _Fál_ is a poetic name for Ireland; _Inisfáil_ means
"the Island of destiny" or of "knowledge."
[102] Lit. "is not lasting."
OSSIANIC POETRY
"Were but the brown leaf which the wood sheds from it gold--were but
the white billow silver--Fionn would have given it all away."--_The
Colloquy with the Ancients._
FIRST WINTER-SONG
Take my tidings!
Stags contend;
Snows descend--
Summer's end!
A chill wind raging;
The sun low keeping,
Swift to set
O'er seas high sweeping.
Dull red the fern;
Shapes are shadows:
Wild geese mourn
O'er misty meadows.
Keen cold limes
Each weaker wing.
Icy times--
Such I sing!
Take my tidings!
ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES.
SECOND WINTER-SONG
Cold till Doom!
Glowers more fearfully the gloom!
Each gleaming furrow is a river,
A loch in each ford's room.
Each pool is deepened to a perilous pit,
A standing-stone each plain, a wood each moor;
The clamouring flight of birds no shelter finds,
White snow winds towards the door.
Like to a spectral host each sharp slim shape,
Each leaping lake swelled to a mighty main;
Wide as a wether's skin each falling flake,
Shield-broad, each drop of rain.
Swift frost again hath fastened all the ways,
It strove and struggled upwards o'er the wold,
About Colt's standing-stone the tempest sways,
Shuddering, men cry, "'Tis cold!"
IN PRAISE OF MAY
Ascribed to Fionn mac Cumhaill.
May-day! delightful day!
Bright colours play the vale along.
Now wakes at morning's slender ray
Wild and gay the blackbird's song.
Now comes the bird of dusty hue,
The loud cuckoo, the summer-lover;
Branchy trees are thick with leaves;
The bitter, evil time is over.
Swift horses gather nigh
Where half dry the river goes;
Tufted heather clothes the height;
Weak and white the bogdown blows.
Corncrake sings from eve to morn,
Deep in corn, a strenuous bard!
Sings the virgin waterfall,
White and tall, her one sweet word.
Loaded bees with puny power
Goodly flower-harvest win;
Cattle roam with muddy flanks;
Busy ants go out and in.
Through the wild harp of the wood
Making music roars the gale--
Now it settles without motion,
On the ocean sleeps the sail.
Men grow mighty in the May,
Proud and gay the maidens grow;
Fair is every wooded height;
Fair and bright the plain below.
A bright shaft has smit the streams,
With gold gleams the water-flag;
Leaps the fish, and on the hills
Ardour thrills the leaping stag.
Loudly carols the lark on high,
Small and shy, his tireless lay,
Singing in wildest, merriest mood,
Delicate-hued, delightful May.
T. W. ROLLESTON.
THE ISLE OF ARRAN
Arran of many stags!
Her very shoulders washed by ocean's foam;
Of companies of hardy men the home,
Whose blue spears reddened oft along her crags
Where the quick-leaping deer doth roam.
Beneath her russet oaks the acorns fall,
Cool water in her streams, and, scattered all,
Dark berries lurk, like down-dropped hidden tears,
Beneath her slowly-moving grasses tall.
Greyhounds there were in her, and beagles brown;
And, when the winding horn her stillness shocks,
From out the friendly shelter of her rocks
The startled stag leaps down.
Around her noble crags, in thickening flocks,
To one another wheeling sea-mews cry;
Yet, all unmoved, the fawns feed silently,
Unconscious of the storm-cloud's gathering frown
That spreads across the leaden autumn sky.
Smooth were her level lands and sleek her swine,
Cheerful her fields (true is the tale I tell)
The heavy hazel-boughs remembered well,
The purple crop, where bramble-trails entwine.
Above the nestling homesteads of the dell.
Her whispering streams, her clear deep pools I miss,
Where brown trout browse beneath the fairy liss;
Pleasant thine isle, Arran of bounding stags,
On such a sultry summer's day as this.
THE PARTING OF GOLL FROM HIS WIFE
_When they are shut up by Fionn on a sea-girt rock,
without chance of escape_.
A DIALOGUE
(GOLL _speaks_)
The end is come; upon this narrow rock
To-morrow I must die;
Wife of the ruddy cheeks and hair of flame,
Leave me to-night and fly.
Seek out the camp of Fionn and of his men
Upon the westward side;
Take there, in time to come, another mate.
Here I abide.
(GOLL'S _wife replies_)
Which way, O Goll, is my way, and thou perished?
Alas! few friends have I!
Small praise that woman hath whose lord is gone
And no protector nigh!
What man should I wed? I whom great Goll cherished
And made his wife?
Where in the East or West should one be sought
To mend my broken life?
Shall I take Oísin, son of Fionn the Wise?
Or Carroll of the blood-stained hand?
Shall I make Angus, son of Hugh, my prize?
Or swift-foot Corr, chief of the fighting-band?
I am as good as they; aye, good and better,
Daughter of Conall, Monarch of the West,
Fostered was I with Conn the Hundred-Fighter,
Best among all the best.
Thee out of all I loved, thee my first master,
Gentlest and bravest thou;
Seven years we lived and loved, through calm and tumult,
And shall I leave thee now?
From that night till to-night I found thee never
Of harsh and churlish mind;
And here I vow, no other man shall touch me,
Kind or unkind.
Here on this narrow crag, foodless and sleepless,
Thou takest thy last stand;
A hundred heroes, Goll, lie rotting round thee,
Slain by thy dauntless hand.
In the wide ocean near us, life is teeming;
Yet on this barren rock
I sink from hunger, and the wild briny waters
My thirst-pangs mock.
Fierce is our hunger, fierce are the five battalions
Sent here to conquer thee;
But fiercer yet the drought that steals my beauty
Midst this surrounding sea.
Though all my dear loved brothers by one caitiff
Lay slaughtered in my sight,
That man I'd call my friend, yea, I would love him,
Could my thirst ease to-night.
Eat, Son of Morna, batten on these dead bodies,
This is my last behest;
Feast well, gaunt Goll, then quench thy awful craving
Here at my breast.
Nought is there more to fear, nought to be hoped for,
Of life and all bereft
High on this crag, abandoned and forsaken,
Nor hope nor shame is left.
(GOLL _speaks_)
King Conall's daughter, cease this mad entreaty,
Cease thou, I pray;
Never have I a woman's counsel asked for,
Far less to-day.
Oh! pitiful how this thing hath befallen,
Little red mouth!
Lips that of old made speech and happy music,
Now dry and harsh with drouth.
Ever I feared this end; my haunting terror
By wave and land
Was to be caught by Fionn and his battalions
On some stark, foodless strand.
Depart not yet; upon this barren islet,
Beneath this brazen sky,
Sweet lips and gentle heart, we sit together
Until we die.
YOUTH AND AGE
From the "Poem-book of Fionn."
Once I was yellow-haired, and ringlets fell,
In clusters round my brow;
Grizzled and sparse to-night my short grey crop,
No lustre in it now.
Better to me the shining locks of youth,
Or raven's dusky hue,
Than drear old age, which chilly wisdom brings,
If what they say be true.
I only know that as I pass the road,
No woman looks my way;
They think my head and heart alike are cold--
Yet I have had my day.
CHILL WINTER
Nipping this winter's night, the snow drifts by,
Below the hill the boisterous billows roar;
'Tis bitter cold to-night the mountain o'er,
Yet still the ungovernable stag bells forth his cry.
To-night laid not his side upon the ground
The deer of Slievecarn of the hundred fights;
He, with the stag of Echtge's frozen heights,
Caught the wolves' snarl, and quivered at the sound.
I, Caoilte, wakeful lie, and Dermot Donn,
We, with keen Oscar of the footsteps fleet,
Watch the slow hours of moving night retreat,
Whilst the dread pack of hungry wolves comes on.
Well rests the ruddy deer in dawn's dim light,
Deep breathing near the covering earthen mound,
Hidden from sight, as 'twere beneath the ground,
All in the latter end of chilly night.
I sit to-night amongst the ancient race,
And of the younger men but few I know,
Though, in the ice-bound mornings long ago,
From my firm grasp the javelin flew apace.
I thank Heaven's King, I thank sweet Mary's Son,
My hand it was that silenced countless men;
They lie stretched out beneath us in the glen,
Colder than we, death-cold, lies many and many an one.
THE SLEEP-SONG OF GRAINNE OVER DERMUID
_When fleeing from Fionn_
From the "Poem-book of Fionn."
Sleep a little, a little little, thou needest feel no fear or dread,
Youth to whom my love is given, I am watching near thy head.
Sleep a little, with my blessing, Dermuid of the lightsome eye,
I will guard thee as thou dreamest, none shall harm while I am by.
Sleep, O little lamb, whose homeland was the country of the lakes,
In whose bosom torrents tremble, from whose sides the river breaks.
Sleep as slept the ancient poet, Dedach, minstrel of the South,
When he snatched from Conall Cernach Eithne of the laughing mouth.
Sleep as slept the comely Finncha 'neath the falls of Assaroe,
Who, when stately Slaine sought him, laid the Hardhead Failbe low.
Sleep in joy, as slept fair Aine, Gailan's daughter of the west,
Where, amid the flaming torches, she and Duvach found their rest.
Sleep as Degha, who in triumph, ere the sun sank o'er the land,
Stole the maiden he had craved for, plucked her from fierce Deacall's
hand.
Fold of Valour, sleep a little, Glory of the Western world;
I am wondering at thy beauty, marvelling how thy locks are curled.
Like the parting of two children, bred together in one home,
Like the breaking of two spirits, if I did not see you come.
Swirl the leaves before the tempest, moans the nightwind o'er the lea,
Down its stony bed the streamlet hurries onward to the sea.
In the swaying boughs the linnet twitters in the darkling light,
On the upland wastes of heather wings the grouse its heavy flight.
In the marshland by the river sulks the otter in his den;
While the piping of the peeweet sounds across the distant fen.
On the stormy mere the wild-duck pushes outward from the brake,
With her downy brood beside her seeks the centre of the lake.
In the east the restless roe-deer bellows to his frightened hind;
On thy track the wolf-hounds gather, sniffing up against the wind.
Yet, O Dermuid, sleep a little, this one night our fear hath fled,
Youth to whom my love is given, see, I watch beside thy bed.
THE SLAYING OF CONBEG
_A beloved hound of Fionn's which Goll mac Morna drowned
in despite of Fionn_.
CAOILTE _sang this_:
Mournful to me the slaying of Conbeg,[103]
Little hound, great was his brightness;
Never was one more deft of paw
Seen in the chase of swine or deer.