Merlin the Diviner.
Merlin! Merlin! where art thou going
So early in the day, with thy black dog?
Oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi!
Oi! oi! oi! ioi! oi!
I have come here to search the way,
To find the red egg;
The red egg of the marine serpent,
By the sea-side in the hollow of the stone.
I am going to seek in the valley
The green water-cress, and the golden grass,
And the top branch of the oak,
In the wood by the side of the fountain.
Merlin! Merlin! retrace your steps;
Leave the branch on the oak,
And the green water-cress in the valley,
As well as the golden grass;
And leave the red egg of the marine serpent,
In the foam by the hollow of the stone.
Merlin! Merlin! retrace thy steps,
There is no diviner but God.
ANCIENT CORNISH DRAMA
The Vision of Seth.
[Adam bids Seth journey to the Gate of Paradise—the way to be known to him because of the burnt imprints of the feet of himself and Eve on the day they were driven forth, sere marks never grass-grown since—and, after telling him to ask for the oil of mercy, blesses him, and sees him go.]
CHERUBIN.
Seth, what is thy errand,
That thou wouldst come so long a way?
Tell me soon.
SETH.
O angel, I will tell thee:
My father is old and weary,
He would not wish to live longer;
And through me he prayed thee
To tell the truth
Of the oil promised to him
Of mercy in the last day.
CHERUBIN.
Within the gate put thy head,
And behold it all, nor fear,
Whatever thou seest,
And look on all sides;
Examine well every particular;
Search out everything diligently.
SETH.
Very joyfully I will do it;
I am glad to have permission
To know what is there,
To tell it to my father.
[And he looks, and turns round, saying:—]
Fair field is this;
Unhappy he who lost the country:
And the tree, it is to me
A great wonder that it is dry;
But I believe that it is dry,
And all made bare, for the sin
Which my father and mother sinned.
Like the prints of their feet,
They are all dry, like herbs.
Alas, that the morsel was eaten.
CHERUBIN.
O Seth, thou art come
Within the Gate of Paradise;
Tell me what thou sawest.
SETH.
All the beauty that I saw
The tongue of no man in the world can
Tell it ever.
Of good fruit, and fair flowers,
Minstrels and sweet song,
A fountain bright as silver;
And four springs, large indeed,
Flowing from it,
That there is a desire to look at them.
In it there is a tree,
High with many boughs;
But they are all bare, without leaves.
And around it, bark
There was none, from the stem to the head
All its boughs are bare.
And at the bottom, when I looked,
I saw its roots
Even into hell descending,
In the midst of great darkness.
And its branches growing up,
Even to heaven high in light;
And it was without bark altogether,
Both the head and the boughs.
CHERUBIN.
Look yet again within,
And all else thou shalt see
Before thou come from it.
SETH.
I am happy that I have permission;
I will go to the gate immediately,
That I may see further good.
[He goes, and looks, and returns.
CHERUBIN.
Dost thou see more now,
Than what there was just now?
SETH.
There is a serpent in the tree;
An ugly beast, without fail.
CHERUBIN.
Go yet a third time to it,
And look better at the tree.
Look, what you can see in it,
Besides roots and branches.
[Again he goes up.
SETH.
Cherub, angel of the God of grace,
In the tree I saw,
High up on the branches,
A little child newly born;
And he was swathed in cloths,
And bound fast with napkins.
CHERUBIN.
The Son of God it was whom thou sawest,
Like a little child swathed.
He will redeem Adam, thy father,
With his flesh and blood too,
When the time is come,
And thy mother, and all the good people.
He is the oil of mercy,
Which was promised to thy father;
Through his death, clearly,
All the world will be saved.
SETH.
Blessed be he:
O God, now I am happy;
Knowing the truth all plainly,
I will go from thee.
CHERUBIN.
Take three kernels of the apple,
Which Adam, thy father, ate.
When he dies, put them, without fail,
Between his teeth and tongue.
From them thou wilt see
Three trees grow presently;
For he will not live more than three days
After thou reachest home.
SETH.
Blessed be thou every day;
I honour thee ever very truly:
My father will be very joyful,
If he soon passes from life.
III
ANCIENT ARMORICAN
(Breton)
ANCIENT BRETON
The Dance of the Sword.
(Ha Korol ar C’Hleze.)
Blood, wine, and glee,
Sun, to thee,—
Blood, wine, and glee!
Fire! fire! steel, Oh! steel!
Fire, fire! steel and fire!
Oak! oak, earth, and waves!
Waves, oak, earth and oak!
Glee of dance and song,
And battle-throng,—
Battle, dance, and song!
Fire! fire! steel, etc.
Let the sword blades swing
In a ring,—
Let the sword blades swing!
Fire! fire! steel, etc.
Song of the blue steel,
Death to feel,—
Song of the blue steel!
Fire! fire! steel, etc.
Fight, whereof the sword
Is the Lord,—
Fight of the fell sword!
Fire! fire! steel, etc.
Sword, thou mighty king
Of battle’s ring,—
Sword thou mighty king!
Fire! fire! steel, etc.
With the rainbow’s light
Be thou bright,—
With the rainbow’s light!
Fire! fire! steel, Oh! steel!
Fire, fire! steel and fire!
Oak! oak, earth and waves!
Waves, oak, earth, and oak!
ANCIENT BRETON
The Lord Nann and the Fairy.
(Aotron Nann Hag ar Gorrigan.)
The good Lord Nann and his fair bride
Were young when wedlock’s knot was tied—
Were young when death did them divide.
But yesterday that lady fair
Two babes as white as snow did bear;
A man-child and a girl they were.
“Now, say what is thy heart’s desire,
For making me a man-child’s sire?
’Tis thine, whate’er thou may’st require,—
“What food soe’er thee lists to take,
Meat of the woodcock from the lake,
Meat of the wild deer from the brake.”
“Oh, the meat of the deer is dainty food!
To eat thereof would do me good,
But I grudge to send thee to the wood.”
The Lord of Nann, when this he heard,
Hath gripp’d his oak spear with never a word;
His bonny black horse he hath leap’d upon,
And forth to the greenwood hath he gone.
By the skirts of the wood as he did go,
He was ware of a hind as white as snow.
Oh, fast she ran, and fast he rode,
That the earth it shook where his horse-hoofs trode.
Oh, fast he rode, and fast she ran,
That the sweat to drop from his brow began—
That the sweat on his horse’s flank stood white;
So he rode and rode till the fall o’ the night.
When he came to a stream that fed a lawn,
Hard by the grot of a Corrigaun.
The grass grew thick by the streamlet’s brink,
And he lighted down off his horse to drink.
The Corrigaun sat by the fountain fair,
A-combing her long and yellow hair.
A-combing her hair with a comb of gold,—
(Not poor, I trow, are those maidens cold).—
“Now who’s the bold wight that dares come here
To trouble my fairy fountain clear?
“Either thou straight shall wed with me,
Or pine for four long years and three;
Or dead in three days’ space shall be.”
“I will not wed with thee, I ween,
For wedded man a year I’ve been;
“Nor yet for seven years will I pine,
Nor die in three days for spell of thine;
“For spell of thine I will not die,
But when it pleaseth God on high.
“But here, and now, I’d leave my life,
Ere take a Corrigaun to wife.
. . . . . . . . . .
“O mother, mother! for love of me,
Now make my bed, and speedily,
For I am sick as a man can be.
“Oh, never the tale to my lady tell;
Three days and ye’ll hear my passing bell;
The Corrigaun hath cast her spell.”
Three days they pass’d, three days were sped,
To her mother-in-law the ladye said;
“Now tell me, madam, now tell me, pray,
Wherefore the death-bells toll to-day?
“Why chaunt the priests in the street below,
All clad in their vestments white as snow?”
“A strange poor man, who harbour’d here,
He died last night, my daughter dear.”
“But tell me, madam, my lord, your son—
My husband—whither is he gone?”
“But to the town, my child, he’s gone;
And at your side he’ll be back anon.”
“What gown for my churching were’t best to wear,—
My gown of grain, or of watchet fair?”
“The fashion of late, my child, hath grown,
That women for churching black should don.”
As through the churchyard porch she stept,
She saw the grave where her husband slept.
“Who of our blood is lately dead,
That our ground is new raked and spread?”
“The truth I may no more forbear,
My son—your own poor lord—lies there!”
She threw herself on her knees amain,
And from her knees ne’er rose again.
That night they laid her, dead and cold,
Beside her lord, beneath the mould;
When, lo!—a marvel to behold!—
Next morn from the grave two oak-trees fair,
Shot lusty boughs high up in air;
And in their boughs—oh wondrous sight!—
Two happy doves, all snowy white—
That sang, as ever the morn did rise,
And then flew up—into the skies!