Little hound, of the baying voice;
Never was one more deft of paw
Found in the running down of the deer.
Tribulation to me the drowning of Conbeg
Upon the mighty grey-green seas;
His cruel loss, it brought contention,[104]
A "fill of sorrow" was his death.
FOOTNOTES:
[103] Conbeg means "little hound."
[104] _i.e._ between Fionn and Goll; Goll was leader of the
Connacht Fians and the deadly enemy of Fionn.
THE FAIRIES' LULLABY
My mirth and merriment, soft and sweet art thou,
Child of the race of Conn art thou;
My mirth and merriment, soft and sweet art thou,
Of the race of Coll and Conn art thou.
My smooth green rush, my laughter sweet,
My little plant in the rocky cleft,
Were it not for the spell on thy tiny feet
Thou wouldst not here be left,
Not thou.
Of the race of Coll and Conn art thou,
My laughter, sweet and low art thou;
As you crow on my knee,
I would lift you with me,
Were it not for the mark that is on your feet
I would lift you away,
and away,
with me.
SONG OF THE FOREST TREES
O man that for Fergus of the feasts dost kindle fire,
Whether afloat or ashore burn not the king of woods.
Monarch of Innisfail's forests the woodbine is, whom none may hold
captive;
No feeble sovereign's effort is it to hug all tough trees in his
embrace.
The pliant woodbine if thou burn, wailings for misfortune will
abound,
Dire extremity at weapons' points or drowning in great waves will
follow.
Burn not the precious apple-tree of spreading and low-sweeping bough;
Tree ever decked in bloom of white, against whose fair head all men
put forth the hand.
The surly blackthorn is a wanderer, a wood that the artificer burns
not;
Throughout his body, though it be scanty, birds in their flocks
warble.
The noble willow burn not, a tree sacred to poems;
Within his bloom bees are a-sucking, all love the little cage.
The graceful tree with the berries, the wizard's tree, the rowan,
burn;
But spare the limber tree; burn not the slender hazel.
Dark is the colour of the ash; timber that makes the wheels to go;
Rods he furnishes for horsemen's hands, his form turns battle into
flight.
Tenterhook among woods the spiteful briar is, burn him that is so
keen and green;
He cuts, he flays the foot, him that would advance he forcibly drags
backward.
Fiercest heat-giver of all timber is green oak, from him none may
escape unhurt;
By partiality for him the head is set on aching, and by his acrid
embers the eye is made sore.
Alder, very battle-witch of all woods, tree that is hottest in the
fight--
Undoubtedly burn at thy discretion both the alder and whitethorn.
Holly, burn it green; holly, burn it dry;
Of all trees whatsoever the critically best is holly.
Elder that hath tough bark, tree that in truth hurts sore;
Him that furnishes horses to the armies from the _sídh_ burn so that
he be charred.
The birch as well, if he be laid low, promises abiding fortune;
Burn up most sure and certainly the stalks that bear the constant
pods.
Suffer, if it so please thee, the russet aspen to come headlong down;
Burn, be it late or early, the tree with the palsied branch.
Patriarch of long-lasting woods is the yew, sacred to feasts, as is
well-known;
Of him now build ye dark-red vats of goodly size.
Ferdedh, thou faithful one, wouldst thou but do my behest:
To thy soul as to thy body, O man, 'twould work advantage.
STANDISH HAYES O'GRADY.
EARLY CHRISTIAN POEMS
ST. PATRICK'S BREASTPLATE
I arise to-day
Through the strength of heaven:
Light of sun,
Radiance of moon,
Splendour of fire,
Speed of lightning,
Swiftness of wind,
Depth of sea,
Stability of earth,
Firmness of rock.
I arise to-day
Through God's strength to pilot me:
God's might to uphold me,
God's wisdom to guide me,
God's eye to look before me,
God's ear to hear me,
God's word to speak for me,
God's hand to guard me,
God's way to lie before me,
God's shield to protect me,
God's host to save me
From snares of devils,
From temptations of vices,
From every one who shall wish me ill,
Afar and anear,
Alone and in a multitude.
Christ to shield me to-day
Against poison, against burning,
Against drowning, against wounding,
So that there may come to me abundance of reward.
Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me,
Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ on my right, Christ on my left,
Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down, Christ when
I arise,
Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of every one who speaks of me,
Christ in every eye that sees me,
Christ in every ear that hears me.
I arise to-day
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through belief in the threeness,
Through confession of the oneness
Of the Creator of Creation.
KUNO MEYER.
PATRICK'S BLESSING ON MUNSTER
Blessing from the Lord on High
Over Munster fall and lie;
To her sons and daughters all
Choicest blessings still befall;
Fruitful blessing on the soil
That supports her faithful toil!
Blessing full of ruddy health,
Blessing full of every wealth
That her borders furnish forth,
East and west and south and north;
Blessings from the Lord on high
Over Munster fall and lie!
Blessing on her peaks in air,
Blessing on her flag-stones bare;
Blessing from her ridges flow
To her grassy glens below;
Blessings from the Lord on High
Over Munster fall and lie!
As the sands upon her shore
Underneath her ships, for store,
Be her hearths, a twinkling host
Over mountain, plain and coast!
Blessing from the Lord on High
Over Munster fall and lie!
ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES.
COLUMCILLE'S FAREWELL TO ARAN OF THE SAINTS
St. Columcille, or Columba, was born 521, died 597 A.D.
Farewell from me to Ara's Isle,
Her smile is at my heart no more,
No more to me the boon is given
With hosts of heaven to walk her shore.
How far, alas! How far, alas!
Have I to pass from Ara's view,
To mix with men from Mona's fen,
With men from Alba's mountains blue.
O Ara, darling of the West,
Ne'er be he blest who loves not thee!
O God, cut short her foeman's breath,
Let hell and death his portion be.
O Ara, darling of the West,
Ne'er be he blest who loves not thee,
Herdless and childless may he go,
In endless woe his doom to dree.
O Ara, darling of the West,
Ne'er be he blest who loves thee not,
When angels wing from heaven on high,
And leave the sky for this dear spot.
DOUGLAS HYDE.
ST. COLUMBA IN IONA
From an Irish MS. in the Burgundian Library, Brussels.
Delightful would it be to me
On a pinnacle of rock,
That I might often see
The face of the ocean;
That I might watch its heaving waves
Over the wide sea
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 clamorous waves
Upon the rocks;
That I might hear the roar by the side of the church
Of the surrounding sea;
That I might watch its noble bird-flocks
Flying over the watery surf;
That I might see the ocean-monsters,
Greatest of all wonders;
That I might observe its ebb and flood
In their cycles;
That my mystical name might be, i'faith,
"Cul ri Erin."
That on my heart contrition might fall
On looking upon her;
That I might bewail my evils all,
Though it were not easy to number them;
That I might bless the Lord
Who orders all;
Heaven with its countless bright orders
Land, strand and flood;
That I might search in all the books
That which would help my soul;
At times kneeling to the Heaven of my heart,
At times singing psalms;
At times meditating on the King of Heaven,
Chief of the Holy Ones;
At times at work without compulsion
This would be delightful.
At times plucking duilisc from the rocks;
At other times fishing;
At times distributing food to the poor,
At times in a hermitage;
The best guidance from the presence of God
Has been vouchsafed to me;
The King whom I serve will keep from me
All things that would deceive me.
EUGENE O'CURRY.
HYMN TO THE DAWN
Ascribed to St. Cellach of Killala, when imprisoned in a hollow oak on
the morning before his murder by his old comrades, _circa_ 540.
Hail to the morning fair, that falls as a flame on the greensward;
Hail, too, unto Him who bestows her, the morn ever fruitful in
blessings.
Robed in her pride she comes, the brilliant sun's little sister,
Hail to thee, Dawn, thrice hail! that lightest my book of the
hours.
Thou searchest the secret dwelling, on clansman and kindred thou
shinest;
White-necked, beautiful, hail! who makest thine uprising golden!
The chequered page of my booklet tells me my life was erring;
Melcroin, 'tis thee whom I fear, 'tis from thee that shall come my
undoing.
Scallcrow, thou paltry fowl, sharp-beaked, grey-coated and cruel,
Full well do I guess thy desire, no friendship hast thou unto
Cellach.
Raven, O Raven, that croakest, from the top of the rath thou art
watching,
Wait but awhile, bird of death, and most surely my flesh will
suffice thee.
Fiercely the kite of Cluain Eo will take his part in the scramble,
His talons filled with my flesh, flying off to his haunt in the
yew-tree.
Swift through the darkling woodland the foxes will scent out my
slaughter,
They on the confines trackless my flesh and my blood will devour.
The mighty wolf from his lair 'neath the rath on the East of
Drumm Dara,
To the banquet of bones will betake him, prime chief of the curs he
will boast him.
Wednesday night past I saw visions, the wild dogs troubled my
slumbers,
Hither and thither they dragged me through russet ferns of the
coppice.
'Twas in a dream I saw it; to the lonely green glen men bore me;
Five men were we who went thither, I saw only four returning.[105]
'Twas in a dream I saw it; to their dwelling my comrades allured me;
They poured out the cup of old friendship, they quaffed to my luck
and long living.
Scant is thy tail, tiny wren; thy doleful pipe is prophetic;
Perhaps it is thou art the traitor; thou, and not they, my destroyer.
For why should Mac Deora deceive me? His father and mine were
brothers;
Oh! monstrous deed and unholy, that he should desire to harm me!
Or why should Meldalua hurt me? my cousin, is he by his mother;
Twin sisters his mother and mine, yet in truth it was he who
betrayed me.
What ill can I get from Melsenig? For a pure man's son I have held
him;
Melsenig, the son of Melibar, 'tis he who hath plotted my downfall.
Melcroin, my playfellow Melcroin, the crime of thy act is yet deeper;
For ten thousand ingots of gold would not Cellach have stooped to
betray thee.
Vain pelf hath allured thee, O Melcroin, the love of this world's
fleeting pleasures,
For the guerdon of hell hast thou sold me, hast sold me, thy friend
and thy brother!
All precious things that I had, my treasures, my sleek-coated horses,
Would I have given to Melcroin, to win him away from this treason!
Yet in high heaven above me, the great Son of Mary is speaking;
"Thou art forsaken on earth; but a welcome awaits thee in heaven."
FOOTNOTES:
[105] Compare "So the two brothers and their murdered man rode
past fair Florence," in Keats' _Isabella or the Pot of Basil_, Stanza
xxvii.
THE SONG OF MANCHAN THE HERMIT
Abbot of Liath Manchan, now Lemanaghan, in King's Co.
Died 665 A.D.
I wish, O Son of the Living God, O Ancient Eternal King,
For a hidden hut in the wilderness, a simple secluded thing.
The all-blithe lithe little lark in his place, chanting his
lightsome lay;
The calm, clear pool of the Spirit's grace, washing my sins away.
A wide, wild woodland on every side, its shades the nursery
Of glad-voiced songsters, who at day-dawn chant their sweet psalm
for me.
A southern aspect to catch the sun, a brook across the floor,
A choice land, rich with gracious gifts, down-stretching from my
door.
Few men and wise, these I would prize, men of content and power,
To raise Thy praise throughout the days at each canonical hour.
Four times three, three times four, fitted for every need,
To the King of the Sun praying each one, this were a grace, indeed.
Twelve in the church to chant the hours, kneeling there twain and
twain;
And I before, near the chancel door, listening their low refrain.
A pleasant church with an Altar-cloth, where Christ sits at the
board,
And a shining candle shedding its ray on the white words of the
Lord.
Brief meals between, when prayer is done, our modest needs supply;
No greed in our share of the simple fare, no boasting or ribaldry.
This is the husbandry I choose, laborious, simple, free,
The fragrant leek about my door, the hen and the humble bee.
Rough raiment of tweed, enough for my need, this will my King allow;
And I to be sitting praying to God under every leafy bough.
A PRAYER
Be Thou my Vision, O Lord of my heart,
Naught is all else to me, save that Thou art.
Thou my best thought by day and by night,
Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light.
Be Thou my Wisdom, Thou my true Word;
I ever with Thee, Thou with me, Lord.
Thou my great Father, I thy dear son;
Thou in me dwelling, I with Thee one.
Be Thou my battle-shield, sword for the fight,
Be Thou my dignity, Thou my delight.
Thou my soul's shelter, Thou my high tower;
Raise Thou me heavenward, Power of my power.
Riches I heed not or man's empty praise,
Thou mine inheritance now and always.
Thou, and Thou only, first in my heart,
High King of Heaven, my treasure Thou art.
King of the seven heavens, grant me for dole,
Thy love in my heart, Thy light in my soul.
Thy light from my soul, Thy love from my heart,
King of the seven heavens, may they never depart.
With the High King of heaven, after victory won,
May I reach heaven's joys, O Bright heaven's Sun!
Heart of my own heart, whatever befall,
Still be my Vision, O Ruler of all.
THE LOVES OF LIADAN AND CURITHIR
St. Cummine, in whose days the lovers lived, died 661. The
language is of the ninth century.
A young poet and poetess of Connaught were betrothed; but during the
year's interval preceding their marriage, Liadan, for some unexplained
reason, took the veil. When Curithir returned to fetch her to his home,
he found that by her vows she had for ever separated herself from
him. In his despair he determined to follow her example and become a
monk. The lovers placed themselves together under the direction of St.
Cummine, a severe and hard man, who permitted them to meet, with the
object of accusing them of wrong-doing. Finally, he gave Curithir the
choice of seeing Liadan without speaking to her, or speaking to her
without seeing. He chooses the latter, and henceforth they wander round
each other's cells, speaking together through the wattled walls, but
never looking on each other's faces. The time comes when this can be no
longer borne, and Curithir sails away to strange lands on pilgrimage,
so that Liadan saw him no more. She died upon the flagstone on which
Curithir was wont to pray, and was buried beneath it.
The poem is in the form of a dialogue.
(LIADAN _speaks_)
Curithir, maker of sweet song,
By me beloved, you do me wrong!
Dear master of the two Grey Feet,[106]
Is it like this we meet?
(CURITHIR _speaks_)
Of late,
Since I and Liadan understood our fate,
Each day hath been a month of fasting days,
Each month a year of doubting of God's ways.
I had my choice
To see her gentle form, or hear her voice;
"Some comfort yet may reach her from my speech,"
I said; "we have been ever looking each at each."
(LIADAN _speaks_)
His voice comes up to me again,
Is it in blame, or is it pain?
I catch its accents strained and deep,
And cannot sleep.
The flagstone where he bent the knee,
Beside the wattled oratory,
'Tis there, at eve, each lonely day,
I go to pray.
Never for him dear hearth or wife,
Homestead, or innocent baby life;
No mate at his right hand
Will ever stand.
Cummine accuses her of wrong and she turns on him:
Cleric, thy thought is ill;
Not with my will you link my name with his,
From Loch Seng's borderland he comes, I wis,
I from Iar-Conchin's Cill.
We met, you say;
But sure, no honeyed pastures of the flock
Where lover's arms in lover's arms enlock,
Was ours that May.
If Curithir is gone to-day
To teach the little scholars of the school,
Small help he'll get who does not know his rule;
Curithir's thoughts are very far away.
At length the news is brought to her that Curithir is gone for ever,
and she breaks out into a passionate lament.
_The Cry of_ LIADAN _after_ CURITHIR
'Tis done!
Joyless the victory I have won,
The tender heart of him I loved I wrung!
He called me near
A little space to please him, but the fear
Of God in heaven withheld me, and I would not hear.
Great gain
To us the way love pointed plain,
To win the gates of Paradise through pain.
Reckless and vain
The whim that caused my lover's love to dim;
Great ever was my gentleness to him.
Liadan am I,
And Curithir I loved; it is no lie,
He would not doubt me now if he were by.
Short while were we
Together in the closest intimacy,
Sweet was the time to him, and sweet to me.
The music of the lightly waving tree,
When Curithir was here, would sing to me,
With the deep voice of the empurpled sea.
Surely to-day
No whim of mine would turn his heart away,
No senseless act or speech, do what I may.
And to myself I say,
My love to him was given, my heart, unshriven,
At his dear feet I lay.
My heart is flame,
A tempest heat no ice on earth can tame,
I cry "I was to blame! I was to blame!"
FOOTNOTES:
[106] A play on Curithir's patronymic, Mac Doborchon, _i.e._
"Son of the Otter."
THE LAY OF PRINCE MARVAN
_In praise of his hermit life. A reply to his brother, King Guaire, of
Connaught, when asked by him why he did not dwell in the Palace._
King Guaire died 662; but the poem, as we have it, is of
the tenth century.
There is a shieling hidden in the wood
Unknown to all save God;
An ancient ash-tree and a hazel-bush
Their sheltering shade afford.
Around the doorway's heather-laden porch
Wild honeysuckles twine;
Prolific oaks, within the forest's gloom,
Shed mast upon fat swine.
Many a sweet familiar woodland path
Comes winding to my door;
Lowly and humble is my hermitage,
Poor, and yet not too poor.
From the high gable-end my lady's throat
Her trilling chant outpours,
Her sombre mantle, like the ousel's coat,
Shows dark above my doors.
From the high oakridge where the roe-deer leaps
The river-banks between,
Renowned Mucraime and Red Roigne's plains
Lie wrapped in robes of green.
Here in the silence, where no care intrudes,
I dwell at peace with God;
What gift like this hast thou to give, Prince Guaire,
Were I to roam abroad?
The heavy branches of the green-barked yew
That seem to bear the sky;
The spreading oak, that shields me from the storm,
When winds rise high.
Like a great hostel, welcoming to all,
My laden apple-tree;
Low in the hedge, the modest hazel-bush
Drops ripest nuts for me.
Round the pure spring, that rises crystal clear,
Straight from the rock,
Wild goats and swine, red fox, and grazing deer,
At sundown flock.
The host of forest-dwellers of the soil
Trysting at night;
To meet them foxes come, a peaceful troop,
For my delight.
Like exiled princes, flocking to their home,
They gather round;
Beneath the river bank great salmon leap,
And trout abound.
Rich rowan clusters, and the dusky sloe,
The bitter, dark blackthorn,
Ripe whortle-berries, nuts of amber hue,
The cup-enclosed acorn.
A clutch of eggs, sweet honey, mead and ale,
God's goodness still bestows;
Red apples, and the fruitage of the heath,
His constant mercy shows.
The goodly tangle of the briar-trail
Climbs over all the hedge;
Far out of sight, the trembling waters wail
Through rustling rush and sedge.
Luxuriant summer spreads its coloured cloak
And covers all the land;
Bright blue-bells, sunk in woods of russet oak,
Their blooms expand.
The movements of the bright red-breasted men,
A lovely melody!
Above my house, the thrush and cuckoo's strain
A chorus wakes for me.
The little music-makers of the world
Chafers and bees,
Drone answer to the tumbling torrent's roar
Beneath the trees.
From gable-ends, from every branch and stem,
Sounds sweetest music now;
Unseen, in restless flight, the lively wren
Flits 'neath the hazel-bough.
Deep in the firmament the sea-gulls fly,
One widely-circling wreath;
The cheerful cuckoo's call, the poult's reply,
Sound o'er the distant heath.
The lowing of the calves in summer-time,
Best season of the year!
Across the fertile plain, pleasant the sound,
Their call I hear.
Voice of the wind against the branchy wood
Upon the deep blue sky;
Most musical the ceaseless waterfall,
The swan's shrill cry.
No hired chorus, trained to praise its chief,
Comes welling up for me;
The music made for Christ the Ever-young,
Sounds forth without a fee.
Though great thy wealth, Prince Guaire, happier live
Those who can boast no hoard;
Who take at Christ's hand that which He doth give
As their award.
Far from life's tumult and the din of strife
I dwell with Him in peace,
Content and grateful, for Thy gifts, High Prince,
Daily increase.
(GUAIRE _replies_)
Wisely thou choosest, Marvan; I a king
Would lay my kingdom by,
With Colman's glorious heritage I'd part
To bear thee company!
THE SONG OF CREDE, DAUGHTER OF GUARE
(In the battle of Aidne, Crede, the daughter of King Guare of Aidne,
beheld Dinertach of the HyFidgenti, 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 the arrows that murder sleep
At every hour in the night's black deep;
Pangs of Love through the long day ache,
All for the dead Dinertach's sake.
Great love of a hero from Roiny's plain
Has pierced me through with immortal pain,
Blasted my beauty and left me to blanch
A riven bloom on a restless branch.
Never was song like Dinertach's speech
But holy strains that to Heaven's gate reach;
A front of flame without boast or pride,
Yet a firm, fond mate for a fair maid's side.
A growing girl--I was timid of tongue,
And never trysted with gallants young,
But since I have won into passionate age,
Fierce love-longings my heart engage.
I have every bounty that life could hold,
With Guare, arch-monarch of Aidne cold,
But, fallen away from my haughty folk,
In Irluachair's field my heart lies broke.
There is chanting in glorious Aidne's meadow,
Under St. Colman's Church's shadow;
A hero flame sinks into the tomb--
Dinertach, alas my love and my doom!
Chaste Christ! that now at my life's last breath
I should tryst with Sorrow and mate with Death!
At every hour of the night's black deep,
These are the arrows that murder sleep.
ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES.
THE STUDENT AND HIS CAT
The Irish of this playful poem was written by a student of the
Monastery of Carinthia on a copy of St. Paul's Epistles about the
close of the eighth century.
I and Pangur Bán, my cat,
'Tis a like task we are at;
Hunting mice is his delight,
Hunting words I sit all night.
Better far than praise of men
'Tis to sit with book and pen;
Pangur bears me no ill-will,
He, too, plies his simple skill.
'Tis a merry thing to see
At our tasks how glad are we,
When at home we sit and find
Entertainment to our mind.
Oftentimes a mouse will stray
In the hero Pangur's way;
Oftentimes my keen thought set
Takes a meaning in its net.
'Gainst the wall he sets his eye
Full and fierce and sharp and sly;
'Gainst the wall of knowledge I
All my little wisdom try.
When a mouse darts from its den,
O! how glad is Pangur then;
O! what gladness do I prove
When I solve the doubts I love.
So in peace our task we ply,
Pangur Bán, my cat, and I;
In our arts we find our bliss,
I have mine, and he has his.
Practice every day has made
Pangur perfect in his trade;
I get wisdom day and night,
Turning darkness into light.
ROBIN FLOWER.
THE SONG OF THE SEVEN ARCHANGELS
Now, Gabriel, be with my heart
On this first day of seven,
He, first of the Archangels;
And Thou, High King of Heaven.
Michael be mine, if Monday dawn,
Michael I call upon,
There is none like thee, Michael,
None but Jesu, Mary's Son.
And oh if Tuesday sorrow bring,
Let Raphael help it forth,
One of the seven that hears us weep,
Sad women of this earth.
And Uriel hear, if Wednesday wake,
In his nobility,
And heal our wounds and care for us
And calm this wind-torn sea.
And Sariel, should Thursday come
With wilder wind and seas,
On Sariel I cry aloud
For that solace which is his.
For sorrow's fast on Friday,
Out of my need I cry
On Rumiel, my heart's near friend,
Though Heaven I know is nigh.
And Saturday, on Panchel,
While this yellow world is mine,
I call on him while shake the leaves
And the yellow sun doth shine.