The assembled fleet at Castle Sween,
Pleasant tidings in Innisfail,
Of all the riders of the waves,
A finer ship no man e’er owned.
Tall men did manage the ship,
Men, I think, to urge their way;
No hand without a champion,
A slashing, vigorous, noble band.
With coats of black all were supplied,
In this bark, noble their race,
Bands with their brown, broad belts,
Danes and nobles were they all.
Chieftains with ivory and gold,
The crew on board this brown-sailed ship,
Each with a sheaf of warriors’ spears,
Shields on their hooks hung round the sides.
Wide-spread wings, speckled sails,
Bearing purple, all of gems;
A long, handsome, gentle band,
Stood along the stout-made spars.
The blue sea at the swift ship’s prow,
The ship laden when the tide is full;
Wattled baskets full of swords,
With shields all brought on board the bark.
Fair women, too, were in the ship,
Modest, their beds were placed on high,
Spotted cushions were provided,
Couches for the nobles’ wives.
Spotted coverings of fine linen,
This was the covering of the ship;
Handsome, easy, as she rocked,
Purple linen round each mast.
No hardened hands, no tightened belt,
Nor roughened by their usual toil;
Heroes were there, nor did they labour,
Bands of men of sweetest lips.
We heard not of so many nobles,
Of our isle from labour free;
From Erin princely champions,
A troop with soft and ruddy hair.
Not ship of all did she count swifter,
None has there been nor will be,
No sigh, no sorrow, and no grief,
Nor is there any end of all.
No ship of ships she counted swift,
Full of princely men she is,
Scattering gold among the bards,
While round the ship resounds the sea.
Many the men of sword and spear,
Many men quick in fight to mix;
Down by the sea the fighting men,
Above, the gentle women were.
Who is he provides this fleet,
At Castle Sween[271] of many hills?
A vigorous man who fears no blast,
His masts upraised, seeking his right.
John M’Sween,[272] sail thou the ship,
On the ocean’s fierce-topped back;
Raise aloft the vessel’s masts,
Let thy bark now test the sea.
A leading wind then for them rose,
At Kyle Aca[273] as rose the tide;
The speckled sails were roundly bellied,
As John ran swiftly for the land.
We entered the cheerful anchorage
In the bay of fruitful Knapdale;[274]
The noble hero, lordly, shapely,
Comely, masted, swift, victorious,
He was then near Albin’s walls,
Helpful, welcoming his men.
Fair was then the youthful hero,
Abundant dew distilling round,
Favourable at Slieve Mun’s[275] streams,
To Mac Sween, him of Slieve Mis.
Speakers then come near to ask,
They deal as with him of sharpest eye.
Branches are laid beneath their knees,
To welcome those of valour great.
Their safety in each harbour nook
Suffers from the welcome they give John.
The men of Albin’s isles then come
With welcome from the narrow sea.
The men who sweetest are that sing,
Tenfold welcomes to him bring.
For a while there was a conflict,
Between them and our men of song;
They come at last to know full well,
How fair the hill from whence came John.
Then did we fight at Castle Sween,
Just as a slender, furious hawk,
We set us down around that rock,
Every limb endowed with strength.
We pierced the bodies of our foes,
Just as a serpent fiercely wounds;
Our thin-bladed, well-edged swords,
The foreigners’ bodies fiercely hacked.
We raised the cry of great Mac Sween,
Amidst the rolling of the sea;
True it is that roll won’t help,
Broad-backed, long although it be,
Their javelins have no power to pierce
The shields which our brown coats protect.
Rathlin of the sharp rocks, hears
The music of our ringing swords.
The thin-bladed sword, in Europe best,
A spear that swift obeys the wish,
What shield on earth can it resist?
Fierce and fearless Erin’s sons.
John Mac Sween of stratagems,
With his thin, powerful, cutting sword,
He whose shield is spotted brown,
A blind man found him brave and wise.
The assembled fleet.
[270] Who this blind poet was the Editor cannot say. He can find no
notice of him anywhere, nor of the attack on Castle Sween, which he
describes. He was an Irish bard, and composes in the Irish dialect,
making use, like the later Irish poets, of language much more difficult
to understand than the older composers. The Editor encountered more
difficulty in reading this piece, than in reading any other in the
Dean’s MS. “Broin” is an ancient word for a _troop_ or _band_, and
“cleath,” “comhlan,” “nòs,” are words for a _warrior_; but these words
are entirely obsolete; so “glantair,” as the comparison of “glan,” is
unknown in the modern language. There is a manifest attempt in the
composition to use obsolete words; but the Editor trusts the meaning
has been correctly rendered.
[271] We can find no trace in our history of this attack by the Irish
Mac Sweenys on Castle Sween. The event cannot be of a very ancient
date, as the Mac Sweenys are not a very ancient tribe in Ulster.
[272] One of the Mac Sweens or Mac Sweenys of Slieve Mis in Antrim.
[273] This cannot be Kyle Akin in Skye, but is probably the ancient
name of the entrance to Loch Sween.
[274] Knapdale, on the west coast of Argyle, south of Crinan.
[275] Not known to the Editor, but is probably on the Knapdale side of
Loch Sween.