Oh blessed Trinity,
And be my stay in danger's hour;
Protect and prosper me.
ERNEST RHYS.
THE FÉILIRE OF ADAMNAN
_Ancient Irish Litany_
Though ascribed to St. Adamnan, Abbot of Iona (died 704), the
biographer of St. Columba, the piece, judging by its language, is
later.
Saints of Four Seasons!
Saints of the Year!
Loving, I pray to you; longing, I say to you:
Save me from angers, dreeings, and dangers!
Saints of Four Seasons!
Saints of the Year!
Saints of Green Springtime!
Saints of the Year!
Patraic and Grighair, Brighid be near!
My last breath gather with God's Foster Father!
Saints of Green Springtime!
Saints of the Year!
Saints of Gold Summer!
Saints of the Year!
(Poesy wingeth me! Fancy far bringeth me!)
Guide ye me on to Mary's Sweet Son!
Saints of Gold Summer!
Saints of the Year!
Saints of Red Autumn!
Saints of the Year!
Lo! I am cheery! Michil and Mary
Open wide Heaven to my soul bereaven!
Saints of Red Autumn!
Saints of the Year!
Saints of Grey Winter
Saints of the Year!
Outside God's Palace fiends wait in malice--
Let them not win my soul going in!
Saints of Grey Winter!
Saints of the Year!
Saints of Four Seasons!
Saints of the Year!
Waking or sleeping, to my grave creeping,
Life in its Night, hold me God's light!
Saints of Four Seasons!
Saints of the Year!
P. J. MCCALL.
THE FEATHERED HERMIT
Blackbird, who pourest praise,
Deep hidden 'neath the bough,
No bell to call the Hours
Thou needest, thou;
Each hour, O hermit, from thy throat,
Wells thy sweet, soft, peaceful note.
AN APHORISM
Time was, I was not here;
Short the time for me, I fear!
Death comes, that is clear;
It is not clear when death is near.
THE BLACKBIRD
High trees close me round
Far from the ground the blackbird sings,
Trilling, it chants its lay
Above my well-lined book to-day.
In its soft veil of grey
The wayward cuckoo calls aloud;
Within my wall of green,
My God shrouds me, all unseen.
DEUS MEUS
By Mael-Isu ("Servant of Jesus"), of Derry, _obit._ 1038.
_Deus meus adiuva me_,
Give me thy love, O Christ, I pray,
Give me thy love, O Christ, I pray,
_Deus meus adiuva me_.
_In meum cor ut sanum sit_,
Pour, loving King, Thy love in it,
Pour, loving King, Thy love in it,
_In meum cor ut sanum sit_.
_Domine, da ut peto a te_,
O, pure bright sun, give, give to-day,
O, pure bright sun, give, give to-day,
_Domine, da ut peto a te_.
_Hanc spero rem et quaero quam_
Thy love to have where'er I am,
Thy love to have where'er I am,
_Hanc spero rem et quaero quam_.
_Tuum amorem sicut uis_,
Give to me swiftly, strongly, this,
Give to me swiftly, strongly, this,
_Tuum amorem sicut uis_.
_Quaero, postulo, peto a te_,
That I in heaven, dear Christ, may stay,
That I in heaven, dear Christ, may stay,
_Quaero, postulo, peto a te_.
_Domine, Domine, exaudi me_,
Fill my soul, Lord, with Thy love's ray,
Fill my soul, Lord, with Thy love's ray,
_Domine, Domine, exaudi me_.
_Deus meus adiuva me_,
_Deus meus adiuva me_.
GEORGE SIGERSON.
THE SOUL'S DESIRE
(Author and date unknown.)
It were my soul's desire
To see the face of God;
It were my soul's desire
To rest in His abode.
It were my soul's desire
To study zealously;
This, too, my soul's desire,
A clear rule set for me.
It were my soul's desire
A spirit free from gloom;
It were my soul's desire
New life beyond the Doom.
It were my soul's desire
To shun the chills of hell;
Yet more my soul's desire
Within His house to dwell.
It were my soul's desire
To imitate my King,
It were my soul's desire
His ceaseless praise to sing.
It were my soul's desire
When heaven's gate is won
To find my soul's desire
Clear shining like the sun.
Grant, Lord, my soul's desire,
Deep waves of cleansing sighs;
Grant, Lord, my soul's desire
From earthly cares to rise.
This still my soul's desire
Whatever life afford,--
To gain my soul's desire
And see Thy face, O Lord.
TEMPEST ON THE SEA
The original of the following poem was ascribed to Ruman mac Colmáin,
an Irish poet of the seventh century, whom the _Book of Leinster_
generously styles "the Homer and Virgil of Ireland." It has been
edited and exquisitely translated in prose by Professor Kuno Meyer
in vol. ii. of _Otia Merseiana_. He attributes it to the eleventh
century. The old prose account says that it was made by Ruman, when
challenged by the Danes of Dublin to sing of the sea.
Tempest on the great sea-borders,
Hear my tale, ye viking sworders!
Winter smites us, wild winds crying
Set the salty billows flying,
Wind and winter, fierce marauders.
Lir's vast host of shouting water
Comes against us, charged with slaughter,
None can tell the dread and wonder
Speaking in the ocean thunder
And the tempest, thunder's daughter.
With the wind of east at morning
All the waves' wild hearts are yearning
Westward over wastes of ocean,
Till they stay their eager motion
Where the setting sun is burning.
When the northern wind comes flying,
All the press of dark waves crying,
Southward surge and clamour, driven
To the shining southern heaven,
Wave to wave in song replying.
When the western wind is blowing
O'er the currents wildly flowing,
Eastward sets its mighty longing
And the waves go eastward thronging
Far to find the sun-tree growing.
When the southern wind comes raining
Over shielded Saxons straining,
Waves round Skiddy isle go pouring,
On Caladnet's beaches roaring,
In grey Shannon's mouth complaining.
Full the sea and fierce the surges,
Lovely are the ocean verges,
On the showery waters whirling,
Sandy winds are swiftly swirling,
Rudders cleave the surf that urges.
Hard round Éire's cliffs and nesses,
Hard the strife, not soft the stresses,
Like swan-feathers softly sifting,
Snow o'er Milidh's folk is drifting,
Manann's wife shakes angry tresses.
At the mouth of each dark river
Breaking waters surge and shiver,
Wind and winter met together
Trouble Alba with wild weather,
Countless falls on Dremon quiver.
Son of God, great Lord of wonder,
Save me from the ravening thunder,
By the feast before Thy dying,
Save me from the tempest crying
And from Hell, tempestuous under.
ROBIN FLOWER.
THE OLD WOMAN OF BEARE
Eleventh century (?)
Ebbtide to me!
My life drifts downward with the drifting sea;
Old age has caught and compassed me about,
The tides of time run out.
The "Hag of Beare!"
'Tis thus I hear the young girls jeer and mock;
Yet I, who in these cast-off clouts appear,
Once donned a queenly smock.
Ye love but self,
Ye churls! to-day ye worship pelf!
But in the days I lived we sought for men,
We loved our lovers then!
Ah! swiftly when
Their splendid chariots coursed upon the plain,
I checked their pace, for me they flew amain,
Held in by curb and rein.
I envy not the old,
Whom gold adorns, whom richest robes enfold,
But ah! the girls, who pass my cell at morn,
While I am shorn!
On sweet May-morn
Their ringing laughter on the breeze is borne,
While I, who shake with ague and with age,
In Litanies engage.
Amen! and woe is me!
I lie here rotting like a broken tree;
Each acorn has its day and needs must fall,
Time makes an end of all!
I had my day with kings!
We drank the brimming mead, the ruddy wine,
Where now I drink whey-water; for company more fine
Than shrivelled hags, hag though I am, I pine.
The flood-tide thine!
Mine but the low down-curling ebb-tide's flow,
My youth, my hope, are carried from my hand,
Thy flood-tide foams to land.
My body drops
Slowly but sure towards the abode we know;
When God's High Son takes from me all my props
It will be time to go!
Bony my arms and bare
Could you but see them 'neath the mantle's flap,
Wizened and worn, that once were round and fair,
When kings lay in my lap.
'Tis, "O my God" with me,
Many prayers said, yet more prayers left undone;
If I could spread my garment in the sun
I'd say them, every one.
The sea-wave talks,
Athwart the frozen earth grim winter stalks;
Young Fermod, son of Mugh, ne'er said me nay,
Yet he comes not to-day.
How still they row,
Oar dipped by oar the wavering reeds among,
To Alma's shore they press, a ghostly throng,
Deeply they sleep and long.
No lightsome laugh
Disturbs my fireside's stillness; shadows fall,
And quiet forms are gathering round my hearth,
Yet lies the hand of silence on them all.
I do not deem it ill
That a nun's veil should rest upon my head;
But finer far my feast-robe's various hue
To me, when all is said.
My very cloak grows old;
Grey is its tint, its woof is frayed and thin;
I seem to feel grey hairs within its fold,
Or are they on my skin?
O happy Isle of Ocean,
Thy flood-tide leaps to meet the eddying wave
Lifting it up and onward. Till the grave
The sea-wave comes not after ebb for me.
I find them not
Those sunny sands I knew so well of yore;
Only the surf's sad roar sounds up to me,
My tide will turn no more.
GORMLIATH'S LAMENT FOR NIAL BLACK-KNEE
"A.D. 946. Gormliath, daughter of Fiann, Queen of Nial Glundubh,
or "Black-knee," died after intense penance for her sins and
transgressions."--_Annals of the Four Masters_.
Move, O Monk, thy foot away!
Lift it from the grave of Nial!
All too high thou heap'st the pile;
All too deep thou diggest the clay.
Brown-haired Monk, most gentle friend,
Press not with thy foot the soil
Nial to cover, heavy toil,
Of thy labours make an end.
Mournful priest, thy prayers delay,
Close not yet the prince's tomb,
Make an opening, for I come;
Move, O Monk, thy foot away!
Not my will that brought thee bound,
Black-kneed Nial, with heart of gold!
When mine arms his form enfold,
Raise his stone, and smooth his mound.
Gormliath I, a Queen commands,
Daughter of King Flann the brave;
Press not then upon his grave;
Move, O Monk, thy foot away!
THE MOTHER'S LAMENT AT THE SLAUGHTER OF THE INNOCENTS
Then, as the executioner plucked her son from her breast, one of the
women said:
"Why are you tearing
Away to his doom,
The child of my caring,
The fruit of my womb.
Till nine months were o'er
His burden I bore,
Then his pretty lips pressed
The glad milk from my breast,
And my whole heart he filled,
And my whole life he thrilled.
All my strength dies,
My tongue speechless lies,
Darkened are my eyes!
His breath was the breath of me;
His death is the death of me."
Then another woman said:
"'Tis my own son that from me you wring,
I deceived not the King.
But slay me, even me,
And let my boy be.
A mother most hapless,
My bosom is sapless,
Mine eyes one tearful river,
My frame one fearful, shiver,
My husband sonless ever,
And I a sonless wife
To live a death in life.
O my son! O God of Truth!
O my unrewarded youth,
O my birthless sicknesses
Until doom without redress.
O my bosom's silent nest,
O the heart broke in my breast."
Then said another woman:
"Murderers, obeying
Herod's wicked willing,
One ye would be slaying,
Many are ye killing.
Infants would ye smother?
Ruffian, ye have rather
Wounded many a father,
Slaughtered many a mother.
Hell's black jaws your horrid deed is glutting,
Heaven's white gate against your black souls shutting.
Ye are guilty of the Great Offence!
Ye have spilled the blood of Innocence."
And yet another woman said:
"O Lord Christ, come to me!
Nay, no longer tarry!
With my son home to Thee
My soul quickly carry.
O Mary great, O Mary mild,
Of God's One Son the Mother,
What shall I do without my child?
For I have now no other.
For Thy Son's sake my son they slew,
Those murderers inhuman;
My sense and soul they slaughtered too,
I am but a crazy woman.
Yea, after that most piteous slaughter,
When my babe's life ran out like water,
The heart within my bosom hath become
A clot of blood from this day till the Doom!"
ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES.
CONSECRATION
By Murdoch O'Daly, called Murdoch "the Scotchman" (Muredach Albanach),
on account of his affection for that country; born in Connaught
towards the close of the twelfth century.
How great the tale, that there should be,
In God's Son's heart, a place for me!
That on a sinner's lips like mine,
The cross of Jesus Christ should shine!
Christ Jesus, bend me to Thy will,
My feet to urge, my griefs to still;
That even my flesh and blood may be
A temple sanctified to Thee.
No rest, no calm, my soul may win,
Because my body craves to sin,
Till Thou, dear Lord, Thyself impart
Peace to my head, light to my heart.
May consecration come from far,
Soft shining like the evening star!
My toilsome path make plain to me,
Until I come to rest in Thee.
TEACH ME, O TRINITY
By the same Poet.
Teach me, O Trinity,
All men sing praise to Thee,
Let me not backward be,
Teach me, O Trinity.
Come Thou and dwell with me,
Lord of the holy race;
Make here thy resting-place,
Hear me, O Trinity.
That I Thy love may prove,
Teach Thou my heart and hand,
Ever at Thy command
Swiftly to move.
Like to a rotting tree
Is this vile heart of me;
Let me Thy healing see,
Help me, O Trinity.
Sinful, beholding Thee;
Yet clean from theft and blood
My hands; O Son of God,
For Mary's love, answer me.
In my adversity
No great man stooped to me,
No good man pitied me,
God ope'd His heart to me.
Lied I, as others lie,
They deceived, so have I,
On others' lie I built my lie--
Will my God pass this by?
Truth art Thou, truth I crave,
If on a lie I rest, I'm lost;
My vow demands my uttermost;
Save, Trinity, O save!
THE SHAVING OF MURDOCH
_When he and Cathal of the Red Hand, King of Connaught, entered the
monastic life together_.
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 of 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 Joachim,
Preserve us in the land of heat, softest branch, Mary.
STANDISH HAYES O'GRADY.
EILEEN AROON
Carol O'Daly, early thirteenth century.
"Come, love, and dwell with me,
Eileen aroon;
I'll roam the world with thee,
Eileen aroon!
Down to Terawley free,
From this sad house we'll flee,
If thou wilt wed with me,
Eileen aroon!
"We'll seek a home of peace,
Eileen aroon;
All fear and doubt shall cease,
Eileen aroon.
If thou wilt seek my side,
If thou wilt be my bride,
All matters not beside,
Eileen aroon.
"Then, wilt thou fly or stay,
Eileen aroon?
Ah! do not say me nay,
Come to me soon."
"I come, I come to thee,
Life of the world to me,
Nought holds me, for I flee
Thus to thy home."
"Welcome thy steps before,
Eileen aroon.
Fling wide our cottage door,
Eileen aroon.
Oh! welcome evermore,
My darling and my store,
Thou shalt go out no more,
Eileen aroon!"
POEMS OF THE DARK DAYS
"I do not know of anything under the sky
That is friendly or favourable to the Gael,
But only the sea that our need brings us to,
Or the wind that blows to the harbour
The ship that is bearing us away from Ireland;
And there is reason that these are reconciled with us,
For we increase the sea with our tears,
And the wandering wind with our sighs."
LADY GREGORY.
THE DOWNFALL OF THE GAEL
By O'Gnive, bard of Shane O'Neill, _circa_ 1560.
My heart is in woe,
And my soul deep in trouble,--
For the mighty are low,
And abased are the noble.
The Sons of the Gael
Are in exile and mourning,
Worn, weary, and pale,
As spent pilgrims returning;
Or men who, in flight
From the field of disaster,
Beseech the black night
On their flight to fall faster;
Or seamen aghast
When their planks gape asunder,
And the waves fierce and fast
Tumble through in hoarse thunder;
Or men whom we see
That have got their death-omen--
Such wretches are we
In the chains of our foemen!
Our courage is fear,
Our nobility vileness,
Our hope is despair,
And our comeliness foulness.
There is mist on our heads,
And a cloud chill and hoary
Of black sorrow sheds
An eclipse on our glory.
From Boyne to the Linn
Has the mandate been given,
That the children of Finn
From their country be driven.
That the sons of the king--
Oh, the treason and malice!--
Shall no more ride the ring
In their own native valleys;
No more shall repair
Where the hill foxes tarry,
Nor forth to the air
Fling the hawk at her quarry;
For the plain shall be broke
By the share of the stranger,
And the stone-mason's stroke
Tell the woods of their danger;
The green hills and shore
Be with white keeps disfigured,
And the Moat of Rathmore
Be the Saxon churl's haggard!
The land of the lakes
Shall no more know the prospect
Of valleys and brakes--
So transform'd is her aspect!
The Gael cannot tell,
In the uprooted wild-wood
And red ridgy dell,
The old nurse of his childhood;
The nurse of his youth
Is in doubt as she views him,
If the wan wretch, in truth,
Be the child of her bosom.
We starve by the board,
And we thirst amid wassail--
For the guest is the lord,
And the host is the vassal!
Through the woods let us roam,
Through the wastes wild and barren;
We are strangers at home!
We are exiles in Erin!
And Erin's a bark
O'er the wide waters driven!
And the tempest howls dark,
And her side planks are riven!
And in billows of might
Swell the Saxon before her,--
Unite, oh, unite!
Or the billows burst o'er her!
SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON.
ADDRESS TO BRIAN O'ROURKE "OF THE BULWARKS" TO AROUSE HIM AGAINST THE
ENGLISH[107]
By his bard, Teig Dall O'Higgin, about 1566.
"And first for Owryrke: I found hym the proudest man that ever I
delt with in Irelande." (Sir Henry Sydney to the Privy Council, from
Dublin, 1576.)
"The man of war is he who dwells in safety,"
A well-worn adage that shall never cease,
Save only when it girdeth on its armour
May many-wooded Banba hope for peace.
Why sit ye still? the Clans of valorous Eoghan,
The Clans of Conn and Conor round you stand;
Do ye not hear the troops of Saxon England
March o'er your plains and trample down your land?
Let Brian, son of Brian, out of Brefney,
Beware the sweetness of their honeyed tongue,
Their greed and need, their indigence and riches,
Two-handed spoil from Ireland's sons have wrung.
Let Brian, son of Brian, son of Eoghan,
Ponder if one man ever came away,--
Who put his trust in England's perjured honour,--
Unscathed by guile, unharmed by treachery?
As waters rising 'neath the snows of winter,
As hamlets flaming from one secret spark,
So shall the chiefs of Erinn rally round him,
When Brian's star arises on the dark.
Then shall wild creatures find their surest covert
Among the broken homesteads of the Pale;
The wolves' deep snarl be heard beside her mansions,
On grass-green Tara's slopes the children's wail.
Where once arose their lightsome lime-washed dwellings,
Where once were precious things of price displayed,
Be thenceforth whispered, in affrighted accents,
That such things had been, ere O'Rourke's fierce raid.
By him be felled their rich fruit-bearing orchards,
Each open highway clothed with ragged weeds;
Long ere the harvest-hour their crops be scattered
By his and Connaught's sons' death-dealing deeds.
Leave hungry famine in Boyne's fertile borders,
Bir of the spreading-boughs bend 'neath his smart,
So that a mother on Meath's richest pastures
Shall munch the morsel of her first child's heart.
Right up to Taillte's very walls and towers
Their villages be levelled with the earth;
Their mills and kilns and haggarts swept before them;
Where wealth and plenty reigns, dread want and dearth.
Smooth into desert wastes fair Usna's mountains,
Pile into hills each widespread pleasant plain;
So that a wandering man may seek her cities,
So he may search her high cross-roads in vain.
By such and such an one let this be treasured
(A tale of wonder for the passing guest)
That on the plain was heard a heifer lowing,
A tinkling cow-bell from the headland's crest.
Shrink not, O desperate band, from weapon-wounding,
Stand as one body, man by brother man;
Had but the clans of Erinn cleaved together
Your land and you had not been under ban.
Arouse thee, valiant Brian of the Bulwarks!
And God be with the champions of the Gael!
The children of the seed of Conn and Eoghan
Stand round thee;--canst thou fail?
FOOTNOTES:
[107] O'Rourke, Prince of Brefney, was a man whom Elizabeth
and her representatives in Ireland found it hard to tackle. His
handsome presence, his dignity and pride, gave rise to stories of his
ascendency over Elizabeth herself. When lying prisoner in the Tower
of London, he is said to have sent to ask Elizabeth the favour of
being hung, if hang he must, with a gad or withe, after his country's
fashion, a request which Cox, who relates the story, says was doubtless
willingly granted him. He was executed in 1597. (Cox's _Hibernia
Anglicana_, ed. 1689, p. 399; _cf._ Bacon's reference to the story in
his essay "Of Custom and Education.")
O'HUSSEY'S ODE TO THE MAGUIRE
Eochadh O'Hosey or Hussey was bard of the Maguires of Fermanagh. The
campaign of Hugh Maguire, celebrated in this poem, was undertaken in
1599-1600 into Munster.
Where is my chief, my master, this bleak night, mavrone?
O cold, cold, miserably cold is this bleak night for Hugh!
Its showery, arrowy, speary sleet pierceth one thro' and thro',
Pierceth one to the very bone.
Rolls real thunder? Or was that red vivid light
Only a meteor? I scarce know; but through the midnight dim
The pitiless ice-wind streams. Except the hate that persecutes him,
Nothing hath crueler venomy might.
An awful, a tremendous night is this, meseems!
The flood-gates of the rivers of heaven, I think, have been burst
wide;
Down from the overcharged clouds, like to headlong ocean's tide,
Descends grey rain in roaring streams.
Tho' he were even a wolf ranging the round green woods,
Tho' he were even a pleasant salmon in the unchainable sea,
Tho' he were a wild mountain eagle, he could scarce bear, he,
This sharp sore sleet, these howling floods.
O mournful is my soul this night for Hugh Maguire!
Darkly as in a dream he strays. Before him and behind
Triumphs the tyrannous anger of the wounding wind,
The wounding wind that burns as fire.
It is my bitter grief, it cuts me to the heart
That in the country of Clan Barry this should be his fate!
O woe is me, where is he? Wandering, houseless, desolate,
Alone, without or guide or chart!
Medreams I see just now his face, the strawberry-bright,
Uplifted to the blackened heavens, while the tempestuous winds
Blow fiercely over and round him, and the smiting sleet-shower blinds
The hero of Galang to-night!
Large, large affliction unto me and mine it is
That one of his majestic bearing, his fair stately form,
Should thus be tortured and o'erborne; that this unsparing storm
Should wreak its wrath on head like his!
That his great hand, so oft the avenger of the oppressed,
Should this chill churlish night, perchance, be paralysed by frost;
While through some icicle-hung thicket, as one lorn and lost,
He walks and wanders without rest.
The tempest-driven torrent deluges the mead,
It overflows the low banks of the rivulets and ponds;
The lawns and pasture-grounds lie locked in icy bonds,
So that the cattle cannot feed.
The pale-bright margins of the streams are seen by none;
Rushes and sweeps along the untamable flood on every side;
It penetrates and fills the cottagers' dwellings far and wide;
Water and land are blent in one.
Through some dark woods, 'mid bones of monsters, Hugh now strays,
As he confronts the storm with anguished heart, but manly brow,
O what a sword-wound to that tender heart of his, were now
A backward glance at peaceful days!
But other thoughts are his, thoughts that can still inspire
With joy and onward-bounding hope the bosom of MacNee;
Thoughts of his warriors charging like bright billows of the sea,
Borne on the wind's wings, flashing fire!
And tho' frost glaze to-night the clear dew of his eyes,
And white ice-gauntlets glove his noble fine fair fingers o'er,
A warm dress is to him that lightening-garb he ever wore,
The lightening of his soul, not skies.
_Avran._