Drumcliff on Culcinne's strand:
To gaze upon fair Loch Foyle--
The shape of its shores is delightful.
Delightful it is,
The deep-red ocean where the sea-gulls cry,
As I come from Derry afar,
It is peaceful and it is delightful.
ON ANGUS THE CULDEE (+ ca. 830)
Delightful to sit here thus
By the side of the cold pure Nore:
Though it was frequented, it was never a path o raids
In glorious Disert Bethech.[27]
Disert Bethech, where dwelt the man
Whom hosts of angels were wont to visit;
A pious cloister behind a circle of crosses,
Where Angus son of Oivlen used to be.
Angus from the assembly of Heaven,
Here are his tomb and his grave:
'Tis hence he went to death,
On a Friday, to holy Heaven.
'Tis in Clonenagh he was reared,
In Clonenagh he was buried:
In Clonenagh of many crosses
He first read his psalms.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 27: 'Beechen Hermitage.']
COLUM CILLE THE SCRIBE
My hand is weary with writing,
My sharp quill is not steady,
My slender-beaked pen juts forth
A black draught of shining dark-blue ink.
A stream of the wisdom of blessed God
Springs from my fair-brown shapely hand:
On the page it squirts its draught
Of ink of the green-skinned holly.
My little dripping pen travels
Across the plain of shining books,
Without ceasing for the wealth of the great--
Whence my hand is weary with writing.
THE LAMENT OF THE OLD WOMAN OF BEARE
The reason why she was called the Old Woman of Beare was
that she had fifty foster-children in Beare. She had seven
periods of youth one after another, so that every man who
had lived with her came to die of old age, and her grandsons
and great-grandsons were tribes and races. For a hundred
years she wore the veil which Cummin had blessed upon her
head. Thereupon old age and infirmity came to her. 'Tis then
she said:
Ebb-tide to me as of the sea!
Old age causes me reproach.
Though I may grieve thereat--
Happiness comes out of fat.
I am the Old Woman of Beare,
An ever-new smock I used to wear:
To-day--such is my mean estate--
I wear not even a cast-off smock.
It is riches
Ye love, it is not men:
In the time when _we_ lived
It was men we loved.
Swift chariots,
And steeds that carried off the prize,--
Their day of plenty has been,
A blessing on the King who lent them!
My body with bitterness has dropt
Towards the abode we know:
When the Son of God deems it time
Let Him come to deliver His behest.
My arms when they are seen
Are bony and thin:
Once they would fondle,
They would be round glorious kings.
When my arms are seen,
And they bony and thin,
They are not fit, I declare,
To be uplifted over comely youths.
The maidens rejoice
When May-day comes to them:
For me sorrow is meeter,
For I am wretched, I am an old hag.
I hold no sweet converse,
No wethers are killed for my wedding-feast,
My hair is all but grey,
The mean veil over it is no pity.
I do not deem it ill
That a white veil should be on my head:
Time was when many cloths of every hue
Bedecked my head as we drank the good ale.
The Stone of the Kings on Femen,
The Chair of Ronan in Bregon,
'Tis long since storms have reached them.
The slabs of their tombs are old and decayed.
The wave of the great sea talks aloud,
Winter has arisen:
Fermuid the son of Mugh to-day
I do not expect on a visit.
I know what they are doing:
They row and row across
The reeds of the Ford of Alma--
Cold is the dwelling where they sleep.
'Tis 'O my God!'
To me to-day, whatever will come of it.
I must take my garment even in the sun:[28]
The time is at hand that shall renew me.
Youth's summer in which we were
I have spent with its autumn:
Winter-age which overwhelms all men,
To me has come its beginning.
Amen! Woe is me!
Every acorn has to drop.
After feasting by shining candles
To be in the gloom of a prayer-house!
I had my day with kings
Drinking mead and wine:
To-day I drink whey-water
Among shrivelled old hags.
I see upon my cloak the hair of old age,
My reason has beguiled me:
Grey is the hair that grows through my skin--
'Tis thus I am an old hag.
The flood-wave
And the second ebb-tide--
They have all reached me,
So that I know them well.
The flood-wave
Will not reach the silence of my kitchen:
Though many are my company in darkness,
A hand has been laid upon them all.
O happy the isle of the great sea
Which the flood reaches after the ebb!
As for me, I do not expect
Flood after ebb to come to me.
There is scarce a little place to-day
That I can recognise:
What was on flood
Is all on ebb.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 28: 'Je tremble a present dedans la canicule.'--Moliere,
_Sganarelle_, scene 2.]
THE DESERTED HOME
Sadly talks the blackbird here.
Well I know the woe he found:
No matter who cut down his nest,
For its young it was destroyed.
I myself not long ago
Found the woe he now has found.
Well I read thy song, O bird,
For the ruin of thy home.
Thy heart, O blackbird, burnt within
At the deed of reckless man:
Thy nest bereft of young and egg
The cowherd deems a trifling tale.
At thy clear notes they used to come,
Thy new-fledged children, from afar;
No bird now comes from out thy house,
Across its edge the nettle grows.
They murdered them, the cowherd lads,
All thy children in one day:
One the fate to me and thee,
My own children live no more.
There was feeding by thy side
Thy mate, a bird from o'er the sea:
Then the snare entangled her,
At the cowherds' hands she died.
O Thou, the Shaper of the world!
Uneven hands Thou layst on us:
Our fellows at our side are spared,
Their wives and children are alive.
A fairy host came as a blast
To bring destruction to our house:
Though bloodless was their taking off,
Yet dire as slaughter by the sword.
Woe for our wife, woe for our young!
The sadness of our grief is great:
No trace of them within, without--
And therefore is my heart so sad.
CORMAC MAC CULENNAIN SANG THIS
Shall I launch my dusky little coracle
On the broad-bosomed glorious ocean?
Shall I go, O King of bright Heaven,
Of my own will upon the brine?
Whether it be roomy or narrow,
Whether it be served by crowds of hosts--
O God, wilt Thou stand by me
When it comes upon the angry sea?
ALEXANDER THE GREAT
Four men stood by the grave of a man,
The grave of Alexander the Proud;
They sang words without falsehood
Over the prince from fair Greece.
Said the first man of them:
'Yesterday there were around the king
The men of the world--a sad gathering!
Though to-day he is alone.'
'Yesterday the king of the brown world
Rode upon the heavy earth:
Though to-day it is the earth
That rides upon his neck.'
'Yesterday,' said the third wise author,
'Philip's son owned the whole world:
To-day he has nought
Save seven feet of earth.'
'Alexander the liberal and great
Was wont to bestow silver and gold:
To-day,' said the fourth man,
'The gold is here, and it is nought.'
Thus truly spoke the wise men
Around the grave of the high-king:
It was not foolish women's talk
What those four sang.
QUATRAINS
THE SCRIBE
A hedge of trees surrounds me,
A blackbird's lay sings to me;
Above my lined booklet
The trilling birds chant to me.
In a grey mantle from the top of bushes
The cuckoo sings:
Verily--may the Lord shield me!--
Well do I write under the greenwood.
ON A DEAD SCHOLAR
Dead is Lon
Of Kilgarrow, O great hurt!
To Ireland and beyond her border
It is ruin of study and of schools.
THE CRUCIFIXION
At the cry of the first bird
They began to crucify Thee, O cheek like a swan!
It were not right ever to cease lamenting--
It was like the parting of day from night.
Ah! though sore the suffering
Put upon the body of Mary's Son--
Sorer to Him was the grief
That was upon her for His sake.
THE PILGRIM AT ROME
To go to Rome
Is much of trouble, little of profit:
The King whom thou seekest here,
Unless thou bring Him with thee, thou wilt not find.
HOSPITALITY
O King of stars!
Whether my house be dark or bright,
Never shall it be closed against any one,
Lest Christ close His house against me.
If there be a guest in your house
And you conceal aught from him,
'Tis not the guest that will be without it,
But Jesus, Mary's Son.
THE BLACKBIRD
Ah, blackbird, thou art satisfied
Where thy nest is in the bush:
Hermit that clinkest no bell,
Sweet, soft, peaceful is thy note.
MOLING SANG THIS
When I am among my elders
I am proof that sport is forbidden:
When I am among the mad young folk
They think that I am their junior.
THE CHURCH BELL IN THE NIGHT
Sweet little bell
That is struck[29] in the windy night,
I liefer go to a tryst with thee
Than to a tryst with a foolish woman.
THE VIKING TERROR
Bitter is the wind to-night,
It tosses the ocean's white hair:
To-night I fear not the fierce warriors of Norway
Coursing on the Irish Sea.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 29: The tongueless Irish bells were struck, not rung.]
FROM THE TRIADS OF IRELAND
Three slender things that best support the world: the slender stream of
milk from the cow's dug into the pail; the slender blade of green corn
upon the ground; the slender thread over the hand of a skilled woman.
The three worst welcomes: a handicraft in the same house with the inmates;
scalding water upon your feet; salt food without a drink.
Three rejoicings followed by sorrow: a wooer's, a thief's, a
tale-bearer's.
Three rude ones of the world: a youngster mocking an old man; a robust
person mocking an invalid; a wise man mocking a fool.
Three fair things that hide ugliness: good manners in the ill-favoured;
skill in a serf; wisdom in the misshapen.
Three sparks that kindle love: a face, demeanour, speech.
Three glories of a gathering: a beautiful wife, a good horse, a swift
hound.
Three fewnesses that are better than plenty: a fewness of fine words; a
fewness of cows in grass; a fewness of friends around good ale.
Three ruins of a tribe: a lying chief, a false judge, a lustful priest.
Three laughing-stocks of the world: an angry man, a jealous man, a
niggard.
Three signs of ill-breeding: a long visit, staring, constant questioning.
Three signs of a fop: the track of his comb in his hair; the track of his
teeth in his food; the track of his stick behind him.
Three idiots of a bad guest-house: an old hag with a chronic cough; a
brainless tartar of a girl; a hobgoblin of a gillie.
Three things that constitute a physician: a complete cure; leaving no
blemish behind; a painless examination.
Three things betokening trouble: holding plough-land in common; performing
feats together; alliance in marriage.
Three nurses of theft: a wood, a cloak, night.
Three false sisters: 'perhaps,' 'may be,' 'I dare say.'
Three timid brothers: 'hush!' 'stop!' 'listen!'
Three sounds of increase: the lowing of a cow in milk; the din of a
smithy; the swish of a plough.
Three steadinesses of good womanhood: keeping a steady tongue; a steady
chastity; a steady housewifery.
Three excellences of dress: elegance, comfort, lastingness.
Three candles that illume every darkness: truth, nature, knowledge.
Three keys that unlock thoughts: drunkenness, trustfulness, love.
Three youthful sisters: desire, beauty, generosity.
Three aged sisters: groaning, chastity, ugliness.
Three nurses of high spirits: pride, wooing, drunkenness.
Three coffers whose depth is not known: the coffers of a chieftain, of the
Church, of a privileged poet.
Three things that ruin wisdom: ignorance, inaccurate knowledge,
forgetfulness.
Three things that are best for a chief: justice, peace, an army.
Three things that are worst for a chief: sloth, treachery, evil counsel.
Three services, the worst that a man can serve: serving a bad woman, a bad
lord, and bad land.
Three lawful handbreadths: a handbreadth between shoes and hose, between
ear and hair, and between the fringe of the tunic and the knee.
Three angry sisters: blasphemy, strife, foul-mouthedness.
Three disrespectful sisters: importunity, frivolity, flightiness.
Three signs of a bad man: bitterness, hatred, cowardice.
FROM THE INSTRUCTIONS OF KING CORMAC
'O Cormac, grandson of Conn,' said Carbery, 'what are the dues of a chief
and of an ale-house?'
'Not hard to tell,' said Cormac.
'Good behaviour around a good chief,
Lights to lamps,
Exerting oneself for the company,
A proper settlement of seats,
Liberality of dispensers,
A nimble hand at distributing,
Attentive service,
Music in moderation,
Short story-telling,
A joyous countenance,
Welcome to guests,
Silence during recitals,
Harmonious choruses.'
'O Cormac, grandson of Conn,' said Carbery, 'what were your habits when
you were a lad?'
'Not hard to tell,' said Cormac.
'I was a listener in woods,
I was a gazer at stars,
I was blind where secrets were concerned,
I was silent in a wilderness,
I was talkative among many,
I was mild in the mead-hall,
I was stern in battle,
I was gentle towards allies,
I was a physician of the sick,
I was weak towards the feeble,
I was strong towards the powerful,
I was not close lest I should be burdensome,
I was not arrogant though I was wise,
I was not given to promising though I was strong,
I was not venturesome though I was swift,
I did not deride the old though I was young,
I was not boastful though I was a good fighter,
I would not speak about any one in his absence,
I would not reproach, but I would praise,
I would not ask, but I would give,--
for it is through these habits that the young become old and kingly
warriors.'
'O Cormac, grandson of Conn,' said Carbery, 'what is the worst thing you
have seen?'
'Not hard to tell,' said Cormac. 'Faces of foes in the rout of battle.'
'O Cormac, grandson of Conn,' said Carbery, 'what is the sweetest thing
you have heard?'
'Not hard to tell,' said Cormac.
'The shout of triumph after victory,
Praise after wages,
A lady's invitation to her pillow.'
'O Cormac, grandson of Conn,' said Carbery, 'how do you distinguish
women?'
'Not hard to tell,' said Cormac. 'I distinguish them, but I make no
difference among them.
'They are crabbed as constant companions,
haughty when visited,
lewd when neglected,
silly counsellors,
greedy of increase;
they have tell-tale faces,
they are quarrelsome in company,
steadfast in hate,
forgetful of love,
anxious for alliance,
accustomed to slander,
stubborn in a quarrel,
not to be trusted with a secret,
ever intent on pilfering,
boisterous in their jealousy,
ever ready for an excuse,
on the pursuit of folly,
slanderers of worth,
scamping their work,
stiff when paying a visit,
disdainful of good men,
gloomy and stubborn,
viragoes in strife,
sorrowful in an ale-house,
tearful during music,
lustful in bed,
arrogant and disingenuous,
abettors of strife,
niggardly with food,
rejecting wisdom,
eager to make appointments,
sulky on a journey,
troublesome bedfellows,
deaf to instruction,
blind to good advice,
fatuous in society,
craving for delicacies,
chary in their presents,
languid when solicited,
exceeding all bounds in keeping others waiting,
tedious talkers,
close practitioners,
dumb on useful matters,
eloquent on trifles.
Happy he who does not yield to them!
They should be dreaded like fire,
they should be feared like wild beasts.
Woe to him who humours them!
Better to beware of them than to trust them,
better to trample upon them than to fondle them,
better to crush them than to cherish them.
They are waves that drown you,
they are fire that burns you,
they are two-edged weapons that cut you,
they are moths for tenacity,
they are serpents for cunning,
they are darkness in light,
they are bad among the good,
they are worse among the bad.'
'O Cormac, grandson of Conn,' said Carbery, 'what is the worst for the
body of man?'
'Not hard to tell,' said Cormac. 'Sitting too long, lying too long, long
standing, lifting heavy things, exerting oneself beyond one's strength,
running too much, leaping too much, frequent falls, sleeping with one's
leg over the bed-rail, gazing at glowing embers, wax, biestings, new ale,
bull-flesh, curdles, dry food, bog-water, rising too early, cold, sun,
hunger, drinking too much, eating too much, sleeping too much, sinning too
much, grief, running up a height, shouting against the wind, drying
oneself by a fire, summer-dew, winter-dew, beating ashes, swimming on a
full stomach, sleeping on one's back, foolish romping.'
'O Cormac, grandson of Conn,' said Carbery, 'what is the worst pleading
and arguing?'
'Not hard to tell,' said Cormac.
'Contending against knowledge,
contending without proofs,
taking refuge in bad language,
a stiff delivery,
a muttering speech,
hair-splitting,
uncertain proofs,
despising books,
turning against custom,
shifting one's pleading,
inciting the mob,
blowing one's own trumpet,
shouting at the top of one's voice.'
'O Cormac, grandson of Conn,' said Carbery, 'who are the worst for whom
you have a comparison?'
'Not hard to tell,' said Cormac.
'A man with the impudence of a satirist,
with the pugnacity of a slave-woman,
with the carelessness of a dog,
with the conscience of a hound,
with a robber's hand,
with a bull's strength,
with the dignity of a judge,
with keen ingenious wisdom,
with the speech of a stately man,
with the memory of an historian,
with the behaviour of an abbot,
with the swearing of a horse-thief,
and he wise, lying, grey-haired, violent, swearing, garrulous, when he
says "the matter is settled, I swear, you shall swear."'
'O Cormac, grandson of Conn,' said Carbery, 'I desire to know how I shall
behave among the wise and the foolish, among friends and strangers, among
the old and the young, among the innocent and the wicked.'
'Not hard to tell,' said Cormac.
'Be not too wise, nor too foolish,
be not too conceited, nor too diffident,
be not too haughty, nor too humble,
be not too talkative, nor too silent,
be not too hard, nor too feeble.
If you be too wise, one will expect too much of you;
if you be too foolish, you will be deceived;
if you be too conceited, you will be thought vexatious;
if you be too humble, you will be without honour;
if you be too talkative, you will not be heeded;
if you be too silent, you will not be regarded;
if you be too hard, you will be broken;
if you be too feeble, you will be crushed.'
NOTES
'The Isles of the Happy' and 'The Sea-god's Address to Bran' are poems
interspersed in the prose tale called 'The Voyage of Bran son of Febal to
the Land of the Living.' For text and translation see my edition (London:
D. Nutt, 1895), pp. 4 and 16. The tale was probably first written down
early in the eighth, perhaps late in the seventh century.
'The Tryst after Death' (_Reicne Fothaid Canainne_) belongs to the ninth
century. For the original text and translation see my 'Fianaigecht, a
collection of hitherto inedited Irish poems and tales relating to Finn and
his Fiana' (Dublin: Hodges, Figgis and Co., 1910), p. 10 ff.
'Deirdre's Farewell to Scotland' and 'Deirdre's Lament' are taken from the
well-known tale called 'The Death of the Children of Usnech.' The text
which is here rendered is that of the Middle-Irish version edited and
translated by Whitley Stokes (_Irische Texte_, ii., Leipzig, 1884), pp.
127 and 145. My rendering follows in the main that of Stokes.
'The Hosts of Faery.'--From the tale called 'Laegaire mac Crimthainn's
Visit to the Fairy Realm of Mag Mell,' the oldest copy of which is found
in the Book of Leinster, a MS. of the twelfth century, p. 275 _b_. See
S.H. O'Grady's _Silva Gadelica_ (Williams and Norgate, 1892), vol. i. p.
256; vol. ii. p. 290, where, however, the verse is not translated.
The two poems from the 'Vision of MacConglinne' are taken from my
translation of the twelfth-century burlesque so called (D. Nutt, 1892),
pp. 34 and 78.
'A Dirge for King Niall of the Nine Hostages.'--Text and translation in
_Festschrift fuer Whitley Stokes_ (Harrassowitz, Leipzig, 1900), p. 1 ff.,
and in the _Gaelic Journal_, x.p. 578 ff. Late eighth or early ninth
century.
'The Song of Carroll's Sword.'--Edited and translated in _Revue Celtique_,
xx. p. 7 ff., and again in the _Gaelic Journal_, x.p. 613. Dallan mac
More, to whom the poem is ascribed, was chief bard to King Carroll
(Cerball) mac Muiregan of Leinster, who reigned from about A.D. 885 to
909.
'Eochaid's Lament.'--Text published in _Archiv fuer celtische
Lexikographie_ (Niemeyer, Halle a. S., 1907), vol. iii. p. 304.
'Lament on King Malachy II.'--_Ibid._, p. 305.
'King and Hermit.'--First published and translated by me under that title
with Messrs. D. Nutt, 1901. The language is that of the tenth century.
'Song of the Sea.'--Text and translation in _Otia Merseiana_ (the
publication of the Arts Faculty, University College, Liverpool), vol. ii.
p. 76 ff. Though the poem is ascribed to the celebrated poet Rumann, who
died in 748, its language points to the eleventh century.
'Summer has come.'--Text and translation in my _Four Songs of Summer and
Winter_ (D. Nutt, 1903), p. 20 ff. The piece probably dates from the tenth
century.
'Song of Summer.'--_Ibid._, p. 8 ff., and _Eriu_, the Journal of the
School of Irish Learning, i. p. 186. The date is the ninth century, I
think.
'Summer is gone.'--_Ibid._, p. 14. Ninth century.
'A Song of Winter.'--From the story called 'The Hiding of the Hill of
Howth,' first printed and translated by me in _Revue Celtique_, xi. p. 125
ff. Probably tenth century.
'Arran.'--Taken from the thirteenth-century prose tale called _Agallamh na
Senorach_, edited and translated by S.H. O'Grady in _Silva Gadelica_. The
poem refers to the island in the Firth of Clyde.
'The Song of Crede, daughter of Guare.'--See text and translation in
_Eriu_, ii. p. 15 ff. Probably tenth century.
'Liadin and Curithir.'--First published and translated by me under that
title with Messrs. D. Nutt, 1902. It belongs to the ninth century.
'The Deer's Cry.'--For the text and translation see Stokes and Strachan,
_Thesaurus Palaeohibernicus_ (University Press, Cambridge), vol. ii. p.
354. I have adopted the translation there given except in some details.
The hymn in the form in which it has come down to us cannot be earlier
than the eighth century.
'An Evening Song.'--Printed in my _Selections from Old-Irish Poetry_, p.
1. Though ascribed to Patrick, the piece cannot be older than the tenth
century.
'Patrick's Blessing on Munster.'--Taken from the _Tripartite Life of
Patrick_, edited by Whitley Stokes (Rolls Series, London, 1887), p. 216.
Not earlier than the ninth century.
'The Hermit's Song.'--See _Eriu_, vol. i. p. 39, where the Irish text will
be found. The poem dates from the ninth century.
'A Prayer to the Virgin.'--See Strachan's edition of the original in
_Eriu_, i. p. 122. There is another copy in the Bodleian MS. Laud 615, p.
91, from which I have taken some better readings. The poem is hardly
earlier than the tenth century.
'Eve's Lament.'--See _Eriu_, iii. p. 148. The date is probably the late
tenth or early eleventh century.
'On the Flightiness of Thought.'--See _Eriu_, iii. p. 13. Tenth century.
'To Crinog.'--The Irish text was published by me in the _Zeitschrift fuer
celtische Philologie_, vol. vi. p. 257. The date of the poem is the tenth
century. Crinog was evidently what is known in the literature of early
Christianity as [Greek: iagapete], _virgo subintroducta_ ([Greek:
syneisaktos]) or _conhospita_, _i.e._ a nun who lived with a priest, monk,
or hermit like a sister or 'spiritual wife' (_uxor spiritualis_). This
practice, which was early suppressed and abandoned everywhere else, seems
to have survived in the Irish Church till the tenth century. See on the
whole subject H. Achelis, _Virgines Subintroductae_, ein Beitrag zu i.,
Kor. vii. (Leipzig, 1902).
'The Devil's Tribute to Moling.'--For text and translation see Whitley
Stokes's _Goidelica_, 2nd ed., p. 180, and his edition of _Felire
Oingusso_, p. 154 ff. I have in the main followed Stokes's rendering.
'Maelisu's Hymn to the Archangel Michael.'--Text and translation in the
_Gaelic Journal_, vol. iv. p. 56. Maelisu ua Brolchain was a writer of
religious poetry both in Irish and Latin, who died in 1056.
'The Mothers' Lament at the Slaughter of the Innocents.'--See text and
translation in the _Gaelic Journal_, iv. p. 89. The piece probably belongs
to the eleventh century.
'Colum Cille's Greeting to Ireland.'--From Reeves' edition of Adamnan's
_Life of St. Columba_, p. 285. The poem, like most of those ascribed to
this saint, is late, belonging probably to the twelfth century.