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SELECTIONS FROM
ANCIENT IRISH POETRY
Selections from
Ancient Irish Poetry
TRANSLATED BY
KUNO MEYER
LONDON
CONSTABLE & COMPANY LTD
10 ORANGE STREET LEICESTER SQUARE W.C.
1911
TO
EDMUND KNOWLES MUSPRATT
THE ENLIGHTENED AND GENEROUS PATRON
OF CELTIC STUDIES
IN THE UNIVERSITY OF LIVERPOOL
A SMALL TOKEN
OF AFFECTIONATE REGARD AND GRATITUDE
INTRODUCTION
In offering this collection of translations from early Irish poetry to a
wider public I feel that I am expected to give a brief account of the
literature from which they are taken--a literature so little known that
its very existence has been doubted or denied by some, while others, who
had the misfortune to make its acquaintance in ill-chosen or inadequate
renderings, have refused to recognise any merit in it. The bias and
ignorance of English historians and of many professed students of Irish
history, who continue to write without a first-hand knowledge of its
sources, have also reacted unfavourably upon the study of Irish
literature. Slowly, however, the fact is becoming recognised in ever wider
circles that the vernacular literature of ancient Ireland is the most
primitive and original among the literatures of Western Europe, and that
in its origins and development it affords a most fascinating study.
Whatever may be its intrinsic merit, its importance as the earliest voice
from the dawn of West European civilisation cannot be denied.
Time and again in the course of their history the nations of Western and
Northern Europe have had to struggle hard for the preservation of their
national life against a powerful denationalising influence proceeding from
Rome. Those among them who underwent the Roman conquest lost early,
together with their liberty, their most precious national possession,
their native language and with it their vernacular literature. Less than a
century after the slaughter of Vercingetorix Romanised Gauls were
carrying off the palm of Roman eloquence. By the fifth century the Gaulish
language was everywhere extinct, without having left behind a single
record of its literature. The same fate was shared by all Celtic
nationalities of the Continent, and by those numerous Germanic tribes that
were conquered by Rome, or came within the sphere of the later Roman
civilisation. In Britain, where the Roman occupation was only temporary,
its denationalising effect may be gauged by the numerous Latin loan-words
preserved to the present day in the Welsh language, by the partial
Romanisation of British personal proper names, by the early inscribed
stones, which, unlike those of Ireland, are all in Latin, and by the late
and slow beginnings of a literature in the vernacular.
It was only on the outskirts of the Continental world, and beyond the sway
and influence of the Roman Empire, that some vigorous nations preserved
their national institutions intact, and among them there are only three
whom letters reached early enough to leave behind some record of their
pagan civilisation in a vernacular literature. These were the Irish, the
Anglo-Saxons, and, comparative latecomers, the Icelanders.
Again, when Christianity came with the authority of Rome and in the Latin
language, now imbued with an additional sanctity, there ensued in all
nations a struggle between the vernacular and the foreign tongue for
obtaining the rank of a literary language--a struggle from which the
languages of the Continental nations, as well as of Britain, emerged only
slowly and late. It is not till the end of the eleventh century that we
find the beginnings of a national literature in France and Germany. In
Ireland, on the other hand, which had received her Christianity not direct
from Rome but from Britain and Gaul, and where the Church, far removed
from the centre of Roman influence and cut off from the rest of
Christendom, was developing on national lines, vernacular literature
received a fresh impulse from the new faith. A flourishing primitive
Christian literature arose. The national language was employed not only
for the purposes of instruction and devotion, in tombstone or other
inscriptions, but also in religious prose and poetry, and, still more
remarkable, in learned writings. There can, I think, be little doubt that
we should hardly have any early records of Anglo-Saxon literature if the
English had not in the first instance received Christianity from the
Irish. It had been the influence and example of those Irish missionaries
who converted Northumberland that taught the Anglian monk to preserve and
cultivate his national literature.
Ireland had become the heiress of the classical and theological learning
of the Western Empire of the third and fourth centuries, and a period of
humanism was thus ushered in which reached its culmination during the
sixth and following centuries, the Golden Age of Irish civilisation. The
charge that is so often levelled against Irish history, that it has been,
as it were, in a backwater, where only the fainter wash of the larger
currents reaches, cannot apply to this period. For once, at any rate,
Ireland drew upon herself the eyes of the whole world, not, as so often
in later times, by her unparalleled sufferings, but as the one haven of
rest in a turbulent world overrun by hordes of barbarians, as the great
seminary of Christian and classical learning, 'the quiet habitation of
sanctity and literature,' as Doctor Johnson called her in a memorable
letter written to Charles O'Connor. Her sons, carrying Christianity and a
new humanism over Great Britain and the Continent, became the teachers of
whole nations, the counsellors of kings and emperors. For once, if but for
a century or two, the Celtic spirit dominated a large part of the Western
world, and Celtic ideals imparted a new life to a decadent civilisation
until they succumbed, not altogether to the benefit of mankind, before a
mightier system--that of Rome.
It was during this period that the oral literature, handed down by many
generations of bards and story-tellers, was first written down in the
monasteries. Unfortunately, not a single tale, only two or three poems,
have come down to us from these early centuries in contemporary
manuscripts. In Ireland nearly all old MSS. were destroyed during the
Viking terror which burst upon the island at the end of the eighth
century.[1] But, from the eleventh century onward, we have an almost
unbroken series of hundreds of MSS. in which all that had escaped
destruction was collected and arranged. Many of the tales and poems thus
preserved were undoubtedly originally composed in the eighth century; some
few perhaps in the seventh; and as Irish scholarship advances, it is not
unlikely that fragments of poetry will be found which, from linguistic or
internal evidence, may be claimed for the sixth century.
The Celtic nations stand almost alone in this, that they did not employ
poetry for epical narrative. There are no ancient Irish epics or ballads.
So much was prose the natural vehicle of expression for Gaelic narrative,
that when in later centuries the Arthurian epics were done into Gaelic,
they were all turned from poetry into prose. At the same time, most Irish
tales and stories are interspersed with lyrics put into the mouth of the
principal heroes, after the manner of the _cante fable_, most familiar to
modern readers from the French story of _Aucassin et Nicolete_. My
collection begins with a few specimens of such poems.
The purely lyrical poetry of ancient Ireland may be roughly divided into
two sections--that of the professional bard attached to the court and
person of a chief; and that of the unattached poet, whether monk or
itinerant bard.
From the earliest times we know the names of many famous bards of ancient
Ireland and Scotland. Their songs are interwoven with the history of the
dynasties and the great houses of the country whose retainers they were,
and whose joys and sorrows they shared and expressed. Thus they became the
chroniclers of many historical events. Of the oldest bardic poetry very
little has as yet been published, and less translated. But many fine
examples of a later age will be found in Standish Hayes O'Grady's
_Catalogue of Irish Manuscripts in the British Museum_, a book which
makes one realise more clearly than any other that the true history of
Ireland has never yet been written. My own specimens from the earlier
centuries include several laments and a sword-song, a species of bardic
composition which the Gaels share with the Norse.
Religious poetry ranges from single quatrains to lengthy compositions
dealing with all the varied aspects of religious life. Many of them give
us a fascinating insight into the peculiar character of the early Irish
Church, which differed in so many ways from the rest of the Christian
world. We see the hermit in his lonely cell, the monk at his devotions or
at his work of copying in the scriptorium or under the open sky; or we
hear the ascetic who, alone or with twelve chosen companions, has left one
of the great monasteries in order to live in greater solitude among the
woods or mountains, or on a lonely island. The fact that so many of these
poems are fathered upon well-known saints emphasises the friendly attitude
of the native clergy towards vernacular poetry.
In Nature poetry the Gaelic muse may vie with that of any other nation.
Indeed, these poems occupy a unique position in the literature of the
world. To seek out and watch and love Nature, in its tiniest phenomena as
in its grandest, was given to no people so early and so fully as to the
Celt. Many hundreds of Gaelic and Welsh poems testify to this fact.[2] It
is a characteristic of these poems that in none of them do we get an
elaborate or sustained description of any scene or scenery, but rather a
succession of pictures and images which the poet, like an impressionist,
calls up before us by light and skilful touches. Like the Japanese, the
Celts were always quick to take an artistic hint; they avoid the obvious
and the commonplace; the half-said thing to them is dearest.
Of ancient love-songs comparatively little has come down to us. What we
have are mostly laments for departed lovers. He who would have further
examples of Gaelic love-poetry must turn to modern collections, among
which the _Love-Songs of Connaught_, collected and translated by Douglas
Hyde, occupy the foremost place.
A word on the metrical system of Irish poetry may conclude this rapid
sketch. The original type from which the great variety of Irish metres has
sprung is the catalectic trochaic tetrameter of Latin poetry, as in the
well-known popular song of Caesar's soldiers:--
'Caesar Gallias subegit, Nicomedes Caesarem,
Ecce Caesar nunc triumphat qui subegit Gallias';
or in St. Hilary's _Hymnus in laudem Christi_, beginning:--
'Ymnum dicat turba fratrum, ymnum cantus personet,
Christo regi concinentes laudem demus debitam.'
The commonest stanza is a quatrain consisting of four heptasyllabic lines
with the rhyme at the end of the couplet. In my renderings I have made no
attempt at either rhythm or rhyme; but I have printed the stanzas so as
to show the structure of the poem. For merely practical reasons I have, in
some cases, printed them in the form of couplets, in others in that of
verse-lines.
I must not conclude without recording here also, as I have done elsewhere,
my gratitude for the constant help and advice given to me in these
translations by my old friend and colleague, Professor J.M. Mackay.
K.M.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: The poems referred to have been preserved in Continental
manuscripts.]
[Footnote 2: See the admirable paper by Professor Lewis Jones on 'The Celt
and the Poetry of Nature,' in the _Transactions of the Hon. Society of
Cymmrodorion_, Session 1892-93, p. 46 ff.]
CONTENTS
MYTH AND SAGA--
PAGE
THE ISLES OF THE HAPPY 3
THE SEA-GOD'S ADDRESS TO BRAN 7
THE TRYST AFTER DEATH 9
DEIRDRE'S FAREWELL TO SCOTLAND 15
DEIRDRE'S LAMENT 17
THE HOSTS OF FAERY 19
FROM THE VISION OF MAC CONGLINNE 20
RELIGIOUS POETRY--
THE DEER'S CRY 25
AN EVEN-SONG 28
PATRICK'S BLESSING ON MUNSTER 29
THE HERMIT'S SONG 30
A PRAYER TO THE VIRGIN 32
EVE'S LAMENT 34
ON THE FLIGHTINESS OF THOUGHT 35
TO CRINOG 37
THE DEVIL'S TRIBUTE TO MOLING 39
MAELISU'S HYMN TO THE ARCHANGEL MICHAEL 41
THE MOTHERS' LAMENT AT THE SLAUGHTER OF THE INNOCENTS 42
SONGS OF NATURE--
KING AND HERMIT 47
SONG OF THE SEA 51
SUMMER HAS COME 53
SONG OF SUMMER 54
SUMMER IS GONE 56
A SONG OF WINTER 57
ARRAN 59
LOVE POETRY--
THE SONG OF CREDE, DAUGHTER OF GUARE 63
LIADIN AND CURITHIR 65
BARDIC POETRY--
A DIRGE FOR KING NIALL OF THE NINE HOSTAGES 69
THE SONG OF CARROLL'S SWORD 72
EOCHAID'S LAMENT 75
LAMENT ON KING MALACHY II. 77
MISCELLANEOUS--
THE MONK AND HIS PET CAT 81
COLUM CILLE'S GREETING TO IRELAND 83
ON ANGUS THE CULDEE 86
COLUM CILLE THE SCRIBE 87
THE LAMENT OF THE OLD WOMAN OF BEARE 88
THE DESERTED HOME 92
CORMAC MAC CULENNAIN SANG THIS 94
ALEXANDER THE GREAT 95
QUATRAINS--
THE SCRIBE 99
ON A DEAD SCHOLAR 99
THE CRUCIFIXION 99
THE PILGRIM AT ROME 100
HOSPITALITY 100
THE BLACKBIRD 100
MOLING SANG THIS 100
THE CHURCH BELL IN THE NIGHT 101
THE VIKING TERROR 101
FROM THE TRIADS OF IRELAND 102
FROM THE INSTRUCTIONS OF KING CORMAC 105
NOTES 111
MYTH AND SAGA
THE ISLES OF THE HAPPY
Once when Bran, son of Feval, was with his warriors in his
royal fort, they suddenly saw a woman in strange raiment
upon the floor of the house. No one knew whence she had come
or how she had entered, for the ramparts were closed. Then
she sang these quatrains to Bran while all the host were
listening.
I bring a branch of Evin's[3] apple-tree,
In shape alike to those you know:
Twigs of white silver are upon it,
Buds of crystal with blossoms.
There is a distant isle,
Around which sea-horses glisten:
A fair course against the white-swelling surge--
Four pedestals uphold it.
A delight of the eyes, a glorious range
Is the plain on which the hosts hold games:
Coracle contends against chariot
In Silver-white Plain[3] to the south.
Pedestals of white bronze underneath
Glittering through ages of beauty:
Fairest land throughout the world,
On which the many blossoms drop.
An ancient tree there is in bloom,
On which birds call to the Hours:
In harmony of song they all are wont
To chant together every Hour.
Colours of every shade glisten
Throughout the gentle-voiced plains:
Joy is known, ranked around music,
In Silver-cloud Plain[3] to the south.
Unknown is wailing or treachery
In the homely cultivated land:
There is nothing rough or harsh,
But sweet music striking on the ear.
Without grief, without gloom, without death,
Without any sickness or debility--
That is the sign of Evin:
Uncommon is the like of such a marvel.
A beauty of a wondrous land,
Whose aspects are lovely,
Whose view is wondrous fair,
Incomparable is its haze.[4]
Then if Silverland[5] is seen,
On which dragon-stones and crystals drop--
The sea washes the wave against the land,
A crystal spray drops from its mane.
Wealth, treasures of every hue
Are in the Land of Peace[5]--a beauty of freshness:
There is listening to sweet music,
Drinking of the choicest wine.
Golden chariots on the plain of the sea
Heaving with the tide to the sun:
Chariots of silver on the Plain of Sports,[5]
And of bronze that has no blemish.
Steeds of yellow gold are on the sward there,
Other steeds with crimson colour,
Others again with a coat upon their backs
Of the hue of all-blue heaven.
At sunrise there comes
A fair man illumining level lands:
He rides upon the white sea-washed plain,
He stirs the ocean till it is blood.
A host comes across the clear sea,
They exhibit their rowing to the land:
Then they row to the shining stone
From which arises music a hundredfold.
It sings a strain unto the host
Through ages long, it is never weary:
Its music swells with choruses of hundreds--
They expect neither decay nor death.
Many-shaped Evna by the sea,
Whether it be near, whether it be far--
In which are thousands of many-hued women,
Which the clear sea encircles.
If one has heard the voice of the music,
The chorus of little birds from the Land of Peace,
A band of women comes from a height
To the plain of sport in which he is.
There comes happiness with health
To the land against which laughter peals:
Into the Land of Peace at every season
Comes everlasting joy.
Through the ever-fair weather
Silver is showered on the lands,
A pure-white cliff over the range of the sea
Receives from the sun its heat.
There are thrice fifty distant isles
In the ocean to the west of us:
Larger than Erin twice
Is each of them, or thrice.
A wonderful child will be born after ages,
Who will not be in lofty places,
The son of a woman whose mate is unknown,
He will seize the rule of the many thousands.
A rule without beginning, without end.
He has created the world so that it is perfect:
Earth and sea are His--
Woe to him that shall be under His unwill!
'Tis He that made the heavens,
Happy he that has a white heart!
He will purify multitudes with pure water,
'Tis He that will heal your sicknesses.
Not to all of you is my speech,
Though its great marvel has been revealed:
Let Bran listen from the crowd of the world
To the wisdom told to him.
Do not sink upon a bed of sloth!
Let not intoxication overcome thee!
Begin a voyage across the clear sea,
If perchance thou mayst reach the Land of Women.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 3: The name of one of the Isles of the Happy.]
[Footnote 4: 'Ese vapor transparente y dorado, que solo se ve en los
climas meridionales.']
[Footnote 5: The name of one of the Isles of the Happy.]
THE SEA-GOD'S ADDRESS TO BRAN
Then on the morrow Bran went upon the sea. When he had been
at sea two days and two nights, he saw a man in a chariot
coming towards him over the sea. It was Manannan, the son of
Ler, who sang these quatrains to him.
To Bran in his coracle it seems
A marvellous beauty across the clear sea:
To me in my chariot from afar
It is a flowery plain on which he rides.
What is a clear sea
For the prowed skiff in which Bran is,
That to me in my chariot of two wheels
Is a delightful plain with a wealth of flowers.
Bran sees
A mass of waves beating across the clear sea:
I see myself in the Plain of Sports
Red-headed flowers that have no fault.
Sea-horses glisten in summer
As far as Bran can stretch his glance:
Rivers pour forth a stream of honey
In the land of Manannan, son of Ler.
The sheen of the main on which thou art,
The dazzling white of the sea on which thou rowest about--
Yellow and azure are spread out,
It is a light and airy land.
Speckled salmon leap from the womb
Out of the white sea on which thou lookest:
They are calves, they are lambs of fair hue,
With truce, without mutual slaughter.
Though thou seest but one chariot-rider
In the Pleasant Plain of many flowers,
There are many steeds on its surface,
Though them thou seest not.
Large is the plain, numerous is the host,
Colours shine with pure glory,
A white stream of silver, stairs of gold
Afford a welcome with all abundance.
An enchanting game, most delicious,
They play over the luscious wine,
Men and gentle women under a bush,
Without sin, without transgression.
Along the top of a wood
Thy coracle has swum across ridges,
There is a wood laden with beautiful fruit
Under the prow of thy little skiff.
A wood with blossom and with fruit
On which is the vine's veritable fragrance,
A wood without decay, without defect,
On which is a foliage of a golden hue.
We are from the beginning of creation
Without old age, without consummation of clay,
Hence we expect not there might be frailty--
Transgression has not come to us.
Steadily then let Bran row!
It is not far to the Land of Women:
Evna with manifold bounteousness
He will reach before the sun is set.
THE TRYST AFTER DEATH
Fothad Canann, the leader of a Connaught warrior-band, had
carried off the wife of Alill of Munster with her consent.
The outraged husband pursued them and a fierce battle was
fought, in which Fothad and Alill fell by each other's hand.
The lovers had engaged to meet in the evening after the
battle. Faithful to his word, the spirit of the slain
warrior kept the tryst and thus addressed his paramour:
Hush, woman, do not speak to me! My thoughts are not with thee.
My thoughts are still in the encounter at Feic.
My bloody corpse lies by the side of the Slope of two Brinks;
My head all unwashed is among warrior-bands in fierce slaughter.
It is blindness for any one making a tryst to set aside the tryst with
Death:
The tryst that we made at Claragh has been kept by me in pale death.
It was destined for me,--unhappy journey! at Feic my grave had been
marked out;
It was ordained for me--O sorrowful fight! to fall by warriors of
another land.
'Tis not I alone who in the fulness of desires has gone astray to meet
a woman--
No reproach to thee, though it was for thy sake--wretched is our last
meeting!
Had we known it would be thus, it had not been hard to desist.
The noble-faced, grey-horsed warrior-band has not betrayed me.
Alas! for the wonderful yew-forest,[6] that they should have gone into
the abode of clay!
Had they been alive, they would have revenged their lords;
Had mighty death not intervened, this warrior-band had not been
unavenged by me.
To their very end they were brave; they ever strove for victory over
their foes;
They would still sing a stave--a deep-toned shout,--they sprang from
the race of a noble lord.
That was a joyous, lithe-limbed band to the very hour when they were
slain:
The green-leaved forest has received them--it was an all-fierce
slaughter.
Well-armed Domnall, he of the red draught, he was the Lugh[7] of the
well-accoutred hosts:
By him in the ford--it was doom of death--Congal the Slender fell.
The three Eoghans, the three Flanns, they were renowned outlaws;
Four men fell by each of them, it was not a coward's portion.
Swiftly Cu-Domna reached us, making for his namesake:
On the hill of the encounter the body of Flann the Little will be
found.
With him where his bloody bed is thou wilt find eight men:
Though we thought them feeble, the leavings of the weapon of Mughirne's
son.
Not feebly fights Falvey the Red; the play of his spear-strings withers
the host;
Ferchorb of radiant body leapt upon the field and dealt seven murderous
blows.
Front to front twelve warriors stood against me in mutual fight:
Not one of them all remains that I did not leave in slaughter.
Then we two exchanged spears, I and Alill, Eoghan's son:
We both perished--O the fierceness of those stout thrusts!
We fell by each other though it was senseless: it was the encounter of
two heroes.
Do not await the terror of night on the battle-field among the slain
warriors:
One should not hold converse with ghosts! betake thee home, carry my
spoils with thee!
Every one will tell thee that mine was not the raiment of a churl:
A crimson cloak and a white tunic, a belt of silver, no paltry work!
My five-edged spear, a murderous lance, whose slaughters have been
many;
A shield with five circles and a boss of bronze, by which they used
to swear binding oaths.
The white cup of my cup-bearer, a shining gem, will glitter before
thee;
My golden finger-ring, my bracelets, treasures without a flaw, King Nia
Nar had brought them over the sea.
Cailte's brooch, a pin with luck, it was one of his marvellous
treasures:
Two heads of silver round a head of gold, a goodly piece, though small.
My draught-board--no mean treasure!--is thine; take it with thee.
Noble blood drips on its rim, it lies not far hence.
Many a body of the spear-armed host lies here and there around its
crimson woof;
A dense bush of the ruddy oak-wood conceals it by the side of the
grave.
As thou carefully searchest for it thou shouldst not speak much:
Earth never covered anything so marvellous.
One half of its pieces are yellow gold, the other are white bronze;
Its woof is of pearls; it is the wonder of smiths how it was wrought.
The bag for its pieces,--'tis a marvel of a story--its rim is
embroidered with gold;
The master-smith has left a lock upon it which no ignorant person can
open.
A four-cornered casket,--it is but tiny--made of coils of red gold;
One hundred ounces of white bronze have been put into it firmly.
For it is of a coil of firm red gold, Dinoll the goldsmith brought it
over the sea;
Even one of its clasps only has been priced at seven slave-women.[8]
Memories describe it as one of Turvey's master-works:
In the time of Art--he was a luxurious king--'tis then Turvey, lord of
many herds, made it.
Smiths never made any work comparable with it;
Earth never hid a king's jewel so marvellous.
If thou be cunning as to its price, I know thy children will never be
in want;
If thou hoard it, a close treasure, none of thy offspring will ever be
destitute.
There are around us here and there many spoils of famous luck:
Horrible are the huge entrails which the Morrigan[9] washes.
She came to us from the edge of a spear, 'tis she that egged us on.
Many are the spoils she washes, terrible the hateful laugh she laughs.
She has flung her mane over her back--it is a stout heart that will not
quail at her:
Though she is so near to us, do not let fear overcome thee!
In the morning I shall part from all that is human, I shall follow the
warrior-band;
Go to thy house, stay not here, the end of the night is at hand.
Some one will at all times remember this song of Fothad Canann;
My discourse with thee shall not be unrenowned, if thou remember my
bequest.
Since my grave will be frequented, let a conspicuous tomb be raised;
Thy trouble for thy love is no loss of labour.
My riddled body must now part from thee awhile, my soul to be tortured
by the black demon.
Save for the worship of Heaven's King, love of this world is folly.
I hear the dusky ousel that sends a joyous greeting to all the
faithful:
My speech, my shape are spectral--hush, woman, do not speak to me!
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 6: A kenning for a band of warriors. 'The flowers of the forest
have all wede away.']
[Footnote 7: A famous mythical hero.]
[Footnote 8: A slave-woman (rated at three cows) was the standard of value
among the ancient Irish.]
[Footnote 9: A battle-goddess.]
DEIRDRE'S FAREWELL TO SCOTLAND
A beloved land is yon land in the east,
Alba[10] with its marvels.
I would not have come hither[11] out of it,
Had I not come with Noisi.
Beloved are Dun Fidga and Dun Finn,
Beloved is the fortress above them,
Beloved is the Isle of the Thorn-bush,
And beloved is Dun Sweeny.
Caill Cuan!
Unto which Ainnle would go, alas!
Short we thought the time there,
Noisi and I in the land of Alba.
Glen Lay!
There I used to sleep under a shapely rock.
Fish and venison and badger's fat,
That was my portion in Glen Lay.
Glen Massan!
Tall is its wild garlic, white are its stalks:
We used to have a broken sleep
On the grassy river-mouth of Massan.
Glen Etive!
There I raised my first house.
Delightful its house! when we rose in the morning
A sunny cattle-fold was Glen Etive.
Glen Urchain!
That was the straight, fair-ridged glen!
Never was man of his age prouder
Than Noisi in Glen Urchain.
Glen Da Ruadh!
Hail to him who hath it as an heritage!
Sweet is the cuckoo's voice on bending branch
On the peak above Glen Da Ruadh.
Beloved is Draighen over a firm beach!
Beloved its water in pure sand!
I would never have left it, from the east,
Had I not come with my beloved.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 10: _i.e._ Scotland.]
[Footnote 11: _i.e._ to Ireland.]
DEIRDRE'S LAMENT
And Deirdre dishevelled her hair and began kissing Noisi and
drinking his blood, and the colour of embers came into her
cheeks, and she uttered this lay.
Long is the day without Usnagh's Children;
It was never mournful to be in their company.
A king's sons, by whom exiles were rewarded,
Three lions from the Hill of the Cave.
Three dragons of Dun Monidh,
The three champions from the Red Branch:
After them I shall not live--
Three that used to break every onrush.
Three darlings of the women of Britain,
Three hawks of Slieve Gullion,
Sons of a king whom valour served,
To whom soldiers would pay homage.
Three heroes who were not good at homage,
Their fall is cause of sorrow--
Three sons of Cathba's daughter,
Three props of the battle-host of Coolney.
Three vigorous bears,
Three lions out of Liss Una,
Three lions who loved their praise,
Three pet sons of Ulster.
That I should remain after Noisi
Let no one in the world suppose!
After Ardan and Ainnle
My time would not be long.
Ulster's high-king, my first husband,
I forsook for Noisi's love:
Short my life after them,
I will perform their funeral game.
After them I will not be alive--
Three that would go into every conflict,
Three who liked to endure hardships,
Three heroes who never refused combat.
O man that diggest the tomb,
And that puttest my darling from me,
Make not the grave too narrow,
I shall be beside the noble ones.
THE HOSTS OF FAERY
White shields they carry in their hands,
With emblems of pale silver;
With glittering blue swords,
With mighty stout horns.
In well-devised battle array,
Ahead of their fair chieftain
They march amid blue spears,
Pale-visaged, curly-headed bands.
They scatter the battalions of the foe,
They ravage every land they attack,
Splendidly they march to combat,
A swift, distinguished, avenging host!
No wonder though their strength be great:
Sons of queens and kings are one and all;
On 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,
Melodious in the ale-house,
Masterly at making songs,
Skilled at playing _fidchell_.[12]
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 12: A game like draughts or chess.]
FROM THE VISION OF MAC CONGLINNE
A vision that appeared to me,
An apparition wonderful
I tell to all:
There was a coracle all of lard
Within a port of New-milk Lake
Upon the world's smooth sea.
We went into that man-of-war,
'Twas warrior-like to take the road
O'er ocean's heaving waves.
Our oar-strokes then we pulled
Across the level of the main,
Throwing the sea's harvest up
Like honey, the sea-soil.
The fort we reached was beautiful,
With works of custards thick,
Beyond the lake.
Fresh butter was the bridge in front,
The rubble dyke was fair white wheat,
Bacon the palisade.
Stately, pleasantly it sat,
A compact house and strong.
Then I went in:
The door of it was hung beef,
The threshold was dry bread,
Cheese-curds the walls.
Smooth pillars of old cheese
And sappy bacon props
Alternate ranged;
Stately beams of mellow cream,
White posts of real curds
Kept up the house.
Behind it was a well of wine,
Beer and bragget in streams,
Each full pool to the taste.
Malt in smooth wavy sea
Over a lard-spring's brink
Flowed through the floor.
A lake of juicy pottage
Under a cream of oozy lard
Lay 'twixt it and the sea.
Hedges of butter fenced it round,
Under a crest of white-mantled lard
Around the wall outside.
A row of fragrant apple-trees,
An orchard in its pink-tipped bloom,
Between it and the hill.
A forest tall of real leeks,
Of onions and of carrots, stood
Behind the house.
Within, a household generous,
A welcome of red, firm-fed men,
Around the fire:
Seven bead-strings and necklets seven
Of cheeses and of bits of tripe
Round each man's neck.
The Chief in cloak of beefy fat
Beside his noble wife and fair
I then beheld.
Below the lofty caldron's spit
Then the Dispenser I beheld,
His fleshfork on his back.
Wheatlet son of Milklet,
Son of juicy Bacon,
Is mine own name.
Honeyed Butter-roll
Is the man's name
That bears my bag.
Haunch of Mutton
Is my dog's name,
Of lovely leaps.
Lard, my wife,
Sweetly smiles
Across the brose.
Cheese-curds, my daughter,
Goes round the spit,
Fair is her fame.
Corned Beef is my son,
Who beams over a cloak,
Enormous, of fat.
Savour of Savours
Is the name of my wife's maid:
Morning-early
Across New-milk Lake she went.
Beef-lard, my steed,
An excellent stallion
That increases studs;
A guard against toil
Is the saddle of cheese
Upon his back.
A large necklace of delicious cheese-curds
Around his back;
His halter and his traces all
Of fresh butter.
RELIGIOUS POETRY
THE DEER'S CRY
Patrick sang this hymn when the ambuscades were laid against
him by King Loeguire (Leary) that he might not go to Tara to
sow the faith. Then it seemed to those lying in ambush that
he and his monks were wild deer with a fawn, even Benen,
following them. And its name is 'Deer's Cry.'
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.
I arise to-day
Through the strength of Christ's birth with His baptism,
Through the strength of His crucifixion with His burial,
Through the strength of His resurrection with His ascension,
Through the strength of His descent for the judgment of Doom.
I arise to-day
Through the strength of the love of Cherubim,
In obedience of angels,
In the service of archangels,
In hope of resurrection to meet with reward,
In prayers of patriarchs,
In predictions of prophets,
In preachings of apostles,
In faiths of confessors,
In innocence of holy virgins,
In deeds of righteous men.
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.
I summon to-day all these powers between me and those evils,
Against every cruel merciless power that may oppose my body and soul,
Against incantations of false prophets,
Against black laws of pagandom,
Against false laws of heretics,
Against craft of idolatry,
Against spells of women and smiths and wizards,
Against every knowledge that corrupts man's body and soul.
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.
AN EVEN-SONG
PATRICK SANG THIS
May Thy holy angels, O Christ, son of living God,
Guard our sleep, our rest, our shining bed.
Let them reveal true visions to us in our sleep,
O high-prince of the universe, O great king of the mysteries!
May no demons, no ill, no calamity or terrifying dreams
Disturb our rest, our willing, prompt repose.
May our watch be holy, our work, our task,
Our sleep, our rest without let, without break.
PATRICK'S BLESSING ON MUNSTER
God's blessing upon Munster,
Men, women, children!
A blessing on the land
Which gives them fruit!
A blessing on every wealth
Which is brought forth on their marches!
No one to be in want of help:
God's blessing upon Munster!
A blessing on their peaks,
On their bare flagstones,
A blessing on their glens,
A blessing on their ridges!
Like sand of sea under ships
Be the number of their hearths:
On slopes, on plains,
On mountain-sides, on peaks.
THE HERMIT'S SONG
I wish, O Son of the living God, O ancient, eternal King,
For a hidden little hut in the wilderness that it may be my dwelling.
An all-grey lithe little lark to be by its side,
A clear pool to wash away sins through the grace of the Holy Spirit.
Quite near, a beautiful wood around it on every side,
To nurse many-voiced birds, hiding it with its shelter.
A southern aspect for warmth, a little brook across its floor,
A choice land with many gracious gifts such as be good for every plant.
A few men of sense--we will tell their number--
Humble and obedient, to pray to the King:--
Four times three, three times four, fit for every need,
Twice six in the church, both north and south:--
Six pairs besides myself,
Praying for ever the King who makes the sun shine.
A pleasant church and with the linen altar-cloth, a dwelling for God
from Heaven;
Then, shining candles above the pure white Scriptures.
One house for all to go to for the care of the body,
Without ribaldry, without boasting, without thought of evil.
This is the husbandry I would take, I would choose, and will not hide
it:
Fragrant leek, hens, salmon, trout, bees.
Raiment and food enough for me from the King of fair fame,
And I to be sitting for a while praying God in every place.
A PRAYER TO THE VIRGIN
Gentle Mary, noble maiden, give us help!
Shrine of our Lord's body, casket of the mysteries!
Queen of queens, pure holy maiden,
Pray for us that our wretched transgression be forgiven for Thy sake.
Merciful one, forgiving one, with the grace of the Holy Spirit,
Pray with us the true-judging King of the goodly ambrosial clan.
Branch of Jesse's tree in the beauteous hazel-wood,
Pray for me until I obtain forgiveness of my foul sins.
Mary, splendid diadem, Thou that hast saved our race,
Glorious noble torch, orchard of Kings!
Brilliant one, transplendent one, with the deed of pure chastity,
Fair golden illumined ark, holy daughter from Heaven!
Mother of righteousness, Thou that excellest all else,
Pray with me Thy first-born to save me on the day of Doom.
Noble rare star, tree under blossom,
Powerful choice lamp, sun that warmeth every one.
Ladder of the great track by which every saint ascends,
Mayst Thou be our safeguard towards the glorious Kingdom.
Fair fragrant seat chosen by the King,
The noble guest who was in Thy womb three times three months.
Glorious royal porch through which He was incarnated,
The splendid chosen sun, Jesus, Son of the living God.
For the sake of the fair babe that was conceived in Thy womb,
For the sake of the holy child that is High-King in every place,
For the sake of His cross that is higher than any cross,
For the sake of His burial when He was buried in a stone-tomb,
For the sake of His resurrection when He arose before every one,
For the sake of the holy household from every place to Doom,
Be Thou our safeguard in the Kingdom of the good Lord,
That we may meet with dear Jesus--that is our prayer--hail!
EVE'S LAMENT
I am Eve, great Adam's wife,
'Tis I that outraged Jesus of old;
'Tis I that robbed my children of Heaven,
By rights 'tis I that should have gone upon the cross.
I had a kingly house to please me,
Grievous the evil choice that disgraced me,
Grievous the wicked advice that withered me!
Alas! my hand is not pure.
'Tis I that plucked the apple,
Which went across my gullet:
So long as they endure in the light of day,
So long women will not cease from folly.
There would be no ice in any place,
There would be no glistening windy winter,
There would be no hell, there would be no sorrow,
There would be no fear, if it were not for me.
ON THE FLIGHTINESS OF THOUGHT
Shame to my thoughts, how they stray from me!
I fear great danger from it on the day of eternal Doom.
During the psalms they wander on a path that is not right:
They fash, they fret, they misbehave before the eyes of great God.
Through eager crowds, through companies of wanton women,
Through woods, through cities--swifter they are than the wind.
Now through paths of loveliness, anon of riotous shame!
Without a ferry or ever missing a step they go across every sea:
Swiftly they leap in one bound from earth to heaven.
They run a race of folly anear and afar:
After a course of giddiness they return to their home.
Though one should try to bind them or put shackles on their feet,
They are neither constant nor mindful to take a spell of rest.
Neither sword-edge nor crack of whip will keep them down strongly:
As slippery as an eel's tail they glide out of my grasp.
Neither lock nor firm-vaulted dungeon nor any fetter on earth,
Stronghold nor sea nor bleak fastness restrains them from their course.
O beloved truly chaste Christ to whom every eye is clear,
May the grace of the seven-fold Spirit come to keep them, to check
them!
Rule this heart of mine, O dread God of the elements,
That Thou mayst be my love, that I may do Thy will.
That I may reach Christ with His chosen companions, that we may be
together!
_They_ are neither fickle nor inconstant--not as I am.
TO CRINOG
Crinog, melodious is your song.
Though young no more you are still bashful.
We two grew up together in Niall's northern land,
When we used to sleep together in tranquil slumber.
That was my age when you slept with me,
O peerless lady of pleasant wisdom:
A pure-hearted youth, lovely without a flaw,
A gentle boy of seven sweet years.
We lived in the great world of Banva[13]
Without sullying soul or body,
My flashing eye full of love for you,
Like a poor innocent untempted by evil.
Your just counsel is ever ready,
Wherever we are we seek it:
To love your penetrating wisdom is better
Than glib discourse with a king.
Since then you have slept with four men after me,
Without folly or falling away:
I know, I hear it on all sides,
You are pure, without sin from man.
At last, after weary wanderings,
You have come to me again,
Darkness of age has settled on your face:
Sinless your life draws near its end.
You are still dear to me, faultless one,
You shall have welcome from me without stint;
You will not let us be drowned in torment:
We will earnestly practise devotion with you.
The lasting world is full of your fame,
Far and wide you have wandered on every track:
If every day we followed your ways,
We should come safe into the presence of dread God.
You leave an example and a bequest
To every one in this world,
You have taught us by your life:
Earnest prayer to God is no fallacy.
Then may God grant us peace and happiness!
May the countenance of the King
Shine brightly upon us
When we leave behind us our withered bodies.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 13: A name for Ireland.]
THE DEVIL'S TRIBUTE TO MOLING
Once as Moling was praying in his church he saw a man coming
in to him. Purple raiment he wore and a distinguished form
had he. 'Well met, cleric!' says he. 'Amen!' says Moling.
'Why dost thou not salute me?' says the man. 'Who art thou?'
says Moling. 'I am Christ, the Son of God,' he answers. 'I
do not know that,' says Moling. 'When Christ used to come to
converse with God's servants, 'twas not in purple or with
royal pomp he would come, but in the shape of a leper.'
'Then dost thou not believe in me?' says the man. 'Whom dost
thou suppose to be here?' 'I suppose,' says Moling, 'that it
is the Devil for my hurt.' 'Thy unbelief will be ill for
thee,' says the man. 'Well,' says Moling, raising the
Gospel, 'here is thy successor, the Gospel of Christ.'
'Raise it not, cleric!' says the Devil; 'it is as thou
thinkest: I am the man of tribulations.' 'Wherefore hast
thou come?' says Moling. 'That thou mayst bestow a blessing
upon me.' 'I will not bestow it,' says Moling, 'for thou
dost not deserve it. Besides, what good could it do thee?'
'If,' says the Devil, 'thou shouldst go into a tub of honey
and bathe therein with thy raiment on, its odour would
remain upon thee unless the raiment were washed.' 'How would
that affect thee?' asks Moling. 'Because, though thy
blessing do nought else to me, its good luck and its virtue
and its blossom will be on me externally.' 'Thou shalt not
have it,' says Moling, 'for thou deservest it not.' 'Well,'
said the Devil, 'then bestow the full of a curse on me.'
'What good were that to thee?' asks Moling. 'The venom and
the hurt of the curse will be on the lips from which it will
come.' 'Go,' says Moling; 'thou hast no right to a
blessing.' 'Better were it for me that I had. How shall I
earn it?' 'By service to God,' says Moling. 'Woe is me!'
says the Devil, 'I cannot bring it.' 'Even a trifle of
study.' 'Thine own study is not greater, and yet it helps me
not.' 'Fasting, then,' says Moling. 'I have been fasting
since the beginning of the world, and not the better thereof
am I.' 'Making genuflexions,' says Moling. 'I cannot bend
forward,' says the Devil, 'for backwards are my knees.' 'Go
forth,' says Moling; 'I cannot teach thee nor help thee.'
Then the Devil said:
He is pure gold, he is the sky around the sun,
He is a vessel of silver with wine,
He is an angel, he is holy wisdom,
Whoso doth the will of the King.
He is a bird round which a trap closes,
He is a leaky ship in perilous danger,
He is an empty vessel, a withered tree,
Who doth not the will of the King above.
He is a fragrant branch with its blossom,
He is a vessel full of honey,
He is a precious stone with its virtue,
Whoso doth the will of God's Son from Heaven.
He is a blind nut in which there is no good,
He is a stinking rottenness, a withered tree,
He is a branch of a blossomless crab-apple,
Whoso doth not the will of the King.
Whoso doth the will of God's Son from Heaven
Is a brilliant summer-sun,
Is a dais of God of Heaven,
Is a pure crystalline vessel.
He is a victorious racehorse over a smooth plain,
The man that striveth after the Kingdom of great God;
He is a chariot that is seen
Under a triumphant king.
He is a sun that warms holy Heaven,
A man with whom the Great King is pleased,
He is a temple blessed, noble,
He is a holy shrine bedecked with gold.
He is an altar on which wine is dealt,
Round which a multitude of melodies is sung,
He is a cleansed chalice with liquor,
He is fair white bronze, he is gold.
MAELISU'S HYMN TO THE ARCHANGEL MICHAEL
O angel!
Bear, O Michael of great miracles,
To the Lord my plaint.
Hearest thou?
Ask of forgiving God
Forgiveness of all my vast evil.
Delay not!
Carry my fervent prayer
To the King, to the great King!
To my soul
Bring help, bring comfort
At the hour of its leaving earth.
Stoutly
To meet my expectant soul
Come with many thousand angels!
O soldier!
Against the crooked, wicked, militant world
Come to my help in earnest!
Do not
Disdain what I say!
As long as I live do not desert me!
Thee I choose,
That thou mayst save my soul,
My mind, my sense, my body.
O thou of goodly counsels,
Victorious, triumphant one,
Angelic slayer of Antichrist!
THE MOTHERS' LAMENT AT THE SLAUGHTER OF THE INNOCENTS
Then, as the executioner plucked her son from her breast, one of the women
said:
Why do you tear from me my darling son,
The fruit of my womb?
It was I who bore him,
My breast he drank.
My womb carried him about,
My vitals he sucked,
My heart he filled.
He was my life,
'Tis death to have him taken from me.
My strength has ebbed,
My speech is silenced,
My eyes are blinded.
Then another woman said:
It is my son you take from me.
I did not do the evil,
But kill me--me!
Kill not my son!
My breasts are sapless,
My eyes are wet,
My hands shake,
My poor body totters.
My husband has no son,
And I no strength.
My life is like death.
O my own son, O God!
My youth without reward,
My birthless sicknesses
Without requital until Doom.
My breasts are silent,
My heart is wrung.
Then said another woman:
Ye are seeking to kill one,
Ye are killing many.
Infants ye slay,
The fathers ye wound,
The mothers ye kill.
Hell with your deed is full,
Heaven is shut,
Ye have spilt the blood of guiltless innocents.
And yet another woman said:
O Christ, come to me!
With my son take my soul quickly!
O great Mary, Mother of God's Son,
What shall I do without my son?
For Thy Son my spirit and sense are killed.
I am become a crazy woman for my son.
After the piteous slaughter
My heart is a clot of blood
From this day till Doom.
SONGS OF NATURE
KING AND HERMIT
Marvan, brother of King Guare of Connaught in the seventh
century, had renounced the life of a warrior-prince for that
of a hermit. The king endeavoured to persuade his brother to
return to his court, when the following colloquy took place
between them.
GUARE
Why, hermit Marvan, sleepest thou not
Upon a feather quilt?
Why rather sleepest thou abroad
Upon a pitchpine floor?
MARVAN
I have a shieling in the wood,
None knows it save my God:
An ash-tree on the hither side, a hazel-bush beyond,
A huge old tree encompasses it.
Two heath-clad doorposts for support,
And a lintel of honeysuckle:
The forest around its narrowness sheds
Its mast upon fat swine.
The size of my shieling tiny, not too tiny,
Many are its familiar paths:
From its gable a sweet strain sings
A she-bird in her cloak of the ousel's hue.