The Poem-Book of the Gael / Translations from Irish Gaelic Poetry into English Prose and Verse

by Unknown

VI. THE DEATH OF ADAM. (xii.)

l. 2021

dam's lifetime was not short;
that ye may know, without risk (of error),
thirty years had he, it was exactly proven,
with nine hundred years.[70]

Then came a complete sickness to Adam,
such as comes to everyone,
his wife Eve with every goodness
was receiving his last bequests.

Adam knew his destiny,
he spake to splendid Eve:
"I have parted from thee and from thy children;
of this sickness I die."

"It is hard of God,"
said she, said Eve, to Adam,
"that thou art not sojourning here,(?)
that it is not I who go first.

"My grief! that thou should'st change,"
said she, said Eve to Adam;
"that I should be here sorrowful without strength,
that thou should'st go first."

"O Eve of the pure clear form,
understand clearly in thy mind;
thou wilt not be any length, it is clear,
here in pain after my departure.

"Short was the time, though it be without deception,
between thy creation and mine,
thou wilt not be in danger of attack,[71] bright is the outlook,
but nine months after me."

"Tell me without error, O Husband,
what I shall do with thy fair dear body?
since thou deemest thy death is certain,
O my Lord, O Adam!"

"Let not foot or hand touch me,
let not any interfere with me,
till one is sent from God from heaven
to arrange my fair dear body.

"Leave my body (fair the fashion),
in its bonds without disturbance;
I am certain that the noble Artificer who formed me
will provide for the needs of my body.

"Arise, O Eve, cheerfully,
and begin a 'cross-vigil';[72]
send thou from thee, O Wife, to God's right hand
my pure soul to holy heaven.

"The soul that God created in me,
it is He who recalled it in its uncleanliness;
let it go to him perfectly to His dwelling
with the accompanying of angel-hosts.

"O Wife, I am not bold, in truth,
concerning the actions of my good King;
the wrath that He showed (pure His sway),
was an act of affection and mercy."

(Eve kneels and prays to God. A heavenly messenger is sent to her, to tell her that the soul of Adam is parted from the body, and that it is safe in the charge of the hosts of the archangel Michael.)

l. 2105

Then Eve went
quickly towards Adam;
until she found Adam (great the love)—
no longer inhaling breath.

When she heard not
the voice of Adam speaking to her with fair beauty,
her senses out of measure overpowered her,
with long lamentations, with lasting sorrow.

(The heavenly messenger speaks)

"O Eve, lift up thine eyes,
and suffer us to instruct thee;
set thy keen pure glance
upwards clearly to the heavenly ones.

"O Woman, raise thy pure face,
to behold the soul of Adam,
as it is uplifted brightly
between hosts of archangels."

On that Eve turned
to behold the soul of Adam,
and she saw the beautiful peaceful soul
of Adam in the company of Michael.

While Eve was thus
recognising the soul of Adam,
she beheld coming towards it along the ways
hosts of angels chorus-singing.

Eve beheld a Seraph
moving nobly in front of the host
on three golden wings;
fair was the beloved thing[73] which he bore.

Then Eve beheld
three white shining birds
(which) across the sky from holy heaven
had arrived (?) in their lustre.

While she was watching the birds,
Eve herself without great trouble,
as with a flash of the full sun,
she became unable to look at them.

Up unto cloudy heaven was heard
the choir of the holy angels around Michael;
they spread their pleasant ranks then
circling about the altar of Adam.

The angels sustained a fitting harmony
round about the altar;
before all the host they burned a herb
which is called "ornamentum."

The strong smoke[74] spread
directly through the air;
the doors of the firmament opened
without any force (?)[75]

God came in holiness from heaven
to the service of Adam's soul;
the Soverain King over every sphere
sat down on His royal throne.

There went before the pure King
a noble angel of the angels;
he sounded melodiously a clear, shrill note,
its beautiful report was heard throughout the seven heavens.[76]

Towards the sound of the trumpet, purely splendid,
went the host of the nine holy grades;
truly strong were their clear numbers,
before the royal throne of the Creator!

(The hosts unite in praising the Lord for His mercy to Adam)

l. 2177

Then the King of Wisdom[77]
sent from Him quickly a Seraph
across the slopes of the great mass of the hosts
with wings of red gold.

Until they took the soul of Adam without pain,
so that it was bathed
in the unpassable (?) river of the ever-living host[78]
"indatinum ciriasu."

So that he brought with him Adam's pure, clear soul
thus out of the stream,
then he placed himself as at the first
before the presence of the Creator.

Then the King laid His hand,
without any consuming (?) upon the soul of Adam.
He commended it to Michael,
fair is the tale!

"Be thou not harsh, O Michael,
towards its great bliss,
place thou the soul of Adam here
in Paradise.

"Bear the bright pure soul
of splendid Adam with his accompanying bands,
place it ...
in the third kingly division of Paradise."

"'In the third heaven,' said God,
'which is called Ficconicia;
let it be there without sign of pain
till the time of the Resurrection.'"

All the grades in every sphere
both of angels and archangels,
sweet was their pure chorus
praising the Creator;

For the remission to the soul of Adam
from its sins, from its vices;
that it should be brought
again to Paradise.

Let the oil of mercy
and the herb "ornamentum" be bestowed
about the body of Adam
to cleanse it from its vileness.

Around the body of Adam
let three wholesome linen cloths, of special honour, be arranged;
and let it be buried exactly
at the side of Abel's sepulchre.

The body of our fore-father Adam,
according to writings of manifold genius,
from afar, under the heavy, sorrowful bonds of death,
was buried in Hebron.

It was there under a strong, firm tower[79]
till the coming of the wave-strength of the flood,
the body of Adam, with honours in its sepulchre,
under assemblies of the strong.

The flood of the deluge over every land,
many countries did it upturn,
it carried his head from Adam
and brought it to Jerusalem.

There the head remained
before Jerusalem;[80]
without grief the cross of Christ afterwards
was planted in the flesh[81] of Adam.

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l. 2385

High King of the Sun, clearly hath it been heard,
He it was who created Paradise;
He who is better than all kings, royal His form,
there is no limit to His existence.

FOOTNOTES:

[70] i.e. 930 years; see Gen. v. 3.

[71] Fogrís means "under attack" or "under warmth," "ardour," "heat"; could it mean "under the warmth of the sun," i.e. "alive"?

[72] A cross-vigil was a prayer uttered with the arms extended in the form of a cross, or sometimes with the body flat on the ground in the same position; such prayers were common in the ancient Irish Church.

[73] "Pet," or "champion."

[74] Or "incense."

[75] Without guardians or keepers?

[76] See p. 18. God is frequently called the "King of the Seven Heavens," cf. p. 120.

[77] Or "King of Victories."

[78] In the Vision of Adamnan the river is of fire. In Dante's Purgatorio (Canto xxxi.) the soul is bathed in the river of Lethe.

[79] Tromthur, in l. 906 of the poem, seems to refer to waves.

[80] Lit. "before the gate of Jerusalem," but see Rev. Celt., vi. p. 104.

[81] i.e. in his skull; this is a curious tradition.

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ANCIENT PAGAN POEMS

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"One day the young poet Nede fared forth till he stood on the margin of the sea, for the poets believed the brink of water to be the place of poetic revelation. He heard a sound in the wave, even a chant of wailing and sadness, and he marvelled thereat.

"So the youth cast a spell upon the wave, that it might reveal to him the cause of its moaning."—Book of Leinster, 186a.

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[THE SOURCE OF POETIC INSPIRATION]

A Colloquy between the Old Poet and the Young Poet. Time: The beginning of the Christian era.

"Who is this sage around
whom is wrapped the robe of splendour?
and whence comes he?"

The young poet answered:

"I spring from the heel of a wise man,
From the meeting-place of wisdom I come forth;
From the place where goodness dwells serene.
From the red sunrise of the dawn I come,
Where grow the nine hazels of poetic art.
From the wide circuits of splendour
Out of which, according to their judgment, truth is weighed.
There is a land where righteousness is instilled,
And where falsehood wanes into twilight.

There is a land of varied colours[82]
Where poems are bathed anew.
And thou, O well-spring of Knowledge, whence comest thou?"

"Well can the answer be given:
I move along the columns of age,
Along the streams of inspiration,
Along the elf-mound of Nechtan's wife,
Along the forearm of the wife of Nuada,[83]
Along the fair land of knowledge
The bright country of the sun;
Along the hidden land which by day the moon inhabits;
Along the first beginnings of life.
I demand of thee, O wise youth, what it is that lies before thee?"

"That I can answer thee.
I travel towards the plain of age,
Through the mountain-heights of youth.
I go forward to the hunting-grounds of old age,
Into the sunny dwelling of a king (death?),
Into the abode of the tomb;
Between burial and judgment,
Between battles and their horrors
Among Tethra's mighty men.[84]
And thou, O master of Wisdom, what lies before thee?"

"I pass into the lofty heights of honour,
Into the community of knowledge,
Into the fair country inhabited of noble sages,
Into the haven of prosperities,
Into the assembly of the king's son.
Into contempt of upstarts,
Into the slopes of death where great honour lies.
O Son of Instructions, whose son art thou?"

"I am the son of Poetry,
Poetry son of investigation,
Investigation son of meditation,
Meditation son of lore,
Lore son of research,
Research son of enquiry,
Enquiry son of wide knowledge,
Knowledge son of good sense,
Good sense son of understanding,
Understanding son of wisdom,
Wisdom son of the three gods of Poetry.
O Fount of Wisdom, of whom art thou the son?"

"I am the son of the man who has lived, but has never been born;
Of him who was buried in the womb of his own mother;[85]
Of him who was baptized after his death.[86]
He of all living, was first betrothed to death,
His is the first name uttered by the living,
His the name lamented by all the dead:
Adam, the High One, is his name."[87]

FOOTNOTES:

[82] The colours denote the qualities of the inhabitants.

[83] Two poetic names for the River Boyne; Nuada was the deified ancestor of the Kings of Leinster. In the Boyne dwelt the "salmon of knowledge," which the poet must consume, and at its source grew the hazels of poetic inspiration. Its tumuli were believed to be the haunts of gods or fairies.

[84] Tethra was god of the assemblies of the dead.

[85] Explained in the gloss to mean "the Earth."

[86] i.e. "in the Passion of Christ."

[87] The above translation is founded on Dr. Whitley Stokes edition of the Colloquy (see note, p. 349).

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[AMORGEN'S SONG]

Amorgen sang:

I am the wind on the sea (for depth);
I am a wave of the deep (for weight);
I am the sound of the sea (for horror);
I am a stag of seven points (? for strength);
I am a hawk on a cliff (for deftness);
I am a tear of the sun (for clearness);
I am the fairest of herbs;
I am a boar for valour;
I am a salmon in a pool (i.e. the pools of knowledge);
I am a lake on a plain (for extent);
I am a hill of Poetry (and knowledge);
I am a battle-waging spear with trophies (for spoiling or hewing);
I am a god, who fashions smoke from magic fire for a head (to slay therewith);
(Who, but I, will make clear every question?)
Who, but myself, knows the assemblies of the stone-house[88] on the mountain of Slieve Mis?
Who (but the Poet) knows in what place the sun goes down?

Who seven times sought the fairy-mounds without fear?
Who declares them, the ages of the moon?
Who brings his kine from Tethra's house?[89]
Who segregated Tethra's kine?
(For whom will the fish of the laughing sea be making welcome, but for me?)
Who shapeth weapons from hill to hill (wave to wave, letter to letter, point to point)?

Invoke, O people of the waves,[90] invoke the satirist, that he may make an incantation for thee!
I, the druid, who set out letters in Ogham;
I, who part combatants;
I, who approach the fairy-mounds to seek a cunning satirist, that he may compose chants with me.
I am the wind on the sea.

FOOTNOTES:

[88] Or dolmen? Professor John MacNeill, on whose readings the above is founded, notes that a dolmen near Slieve Mis in Co. Antrim is called Ticloy (toigh cloiche), and in the local Scotch dialect "the stane-hoose."

[89] See note, p. 349.

[90] i.e. the fish, here also called "Tethra's kine"; this poem is generally followed by an incantation for good fishing, to which these phrases doubtless refer.

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[THE SONG OF CHILDBIRTH]

In the same timely hour upon this earth
He and the King of the World have their birth;
Through the long ages' gloom
Now and to the day of doom
Praises shall echo through the realm of life.
Heroes, at sight of him, cease their strife;
Hostages they twain shall never be
The Christ and he.

On the plain of Inisfail he shall come forth,
On the flagstone of the meadow to the North.

Hostages every battle-chief to him will send,
Through the great world his glory will extend;
The king of grace is he,
The Hound of Ulster he;
But and if he falls,
Darkness and woe descend on Erin's halls.

Conchobhar, son of Ness "ungentle," is his name;
Raids and red routs his valour will proclaim.
There he will find his death
Where the expiring breath
Of the suffering God his vengeful sword demands,
In the dark hour upon the Holy Lands;[91]
Shining his red sword's track,
Over the sloping plain of Liam's back.

FOOTNOTES:

[91] King Conchobhar was believed to be born in the same year as Jesus Christ, and to have met his death in endeavouring to avenge the death of Christ.

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[GREETING TO THE NEW-BORN BABE]

Welcome, little stranger,
Born in pain and danger,
He will be our gracious Lord,
Son of gentle Cathva.

Son of gentle Cathva,
From the fort of Brug na Brat;
Son of valorous Ness the Young,
My son, and my grandson.

My son, and my grandson,
Of the world the shining One,
He of old Rath Line the king,
Poet-prince, my offspring.

Poet-prince, my offspring,
Overseas thy hosts thou wilt fling;
Little songster from the Brug,
Little kid, we welcome you.

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[WHAT IS LOVE?]

From the "Wooing of Etain."

FOOTNOTES:

[92] Lit. "beneath the skin."

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[SUMMONS TO CUCHULAIN]

From the "Sickbed of Cuchulain."

Arise, O Champion of Ulster!
In joyous health mayest thou awake;
Look thou on Macha's King, beloved,
Thy heavy slumber likes him not.

Behold his shoulder full of brightness,
Behold his horns for battle-array,[93]
Behold his chariots sweeping the glens,
Behold the movement of his chess-warriors.[94]

Behold his champions in their might,
Behold his maiden-troop, tall and gentle,
Behold his kings—a storm of war—
Behold his honourable queens.

Look forth! the winter has begun!
Note thou each wonder in its turn,
Behold, for it avails thee well,
Its cold, its length, its want of colour!

This heavy slumber is decay, it is not good;
Exhaustion from unequal strife;
Repose too lengthened is "a drop when one is filled,"[95]
Weakness like this is next to death.[96]

Awake from sleep, the peace which drinkers seek,
With mighty ardour throw it off;
Many smooth speeches woo thee here,
Arise, O Champion of Ulster!

FOOTNOTES:

[93] Or "his drinking-horns filled with ale" according to another reading.

[94] Lit. "chess-Fians."

[95] This seems to be a proverb or saw.

[96] Tanaisi d'éc, lit. "second to death." The "tanist" stood next to the chief, and was his successor.

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[LAEGH'S DESCRIPTION OF
FAIRY-LAND]

From the "Sickbed of Cuchulain."

I came with joyous sprightly steps,
—Wondrous the place, though its fame was known,—
Till I reached the cairn where, 'mid scores of bands,
I found Labra of the flowing hair.

I found him seated at the cairn,
Ringed round by thousands of weaponed men,
Yellow the hair on him, beauteous its hue,
A ball of ruddy gold enclosing it.

After a time he recognised me,
In the purple, five-folded mantle,
He spake to me, "Wilt thou come with me
To the house wherein is Failbe Fand?"

Two kings are in the house,
Failbe Fand and Labra,
Three fifties surround each one of them,
That the full sum of the one house.

Fifty beds on the right side,
With fifty nobles (?) in them,
Fifty beds on the left side,
With fifty in them also.

Copper are the borders of the beds,
White the pillars overlaid with gold;
This the candle in their midst,
A lustrous precious stone.

At the door westward
In the place where sets the sun,
Stand a herd of grey palfreys, dappled their manes,
And another herd purple-brown.

There stand at the Eastern door
Three ancient trees of purple pure,
From them the sweet, everlasting birds
Call to the lads of the kingly rath.

At the door of the liss there is a tree,
Out of which there sounds sweet harmony,
A tree of silver with the shining of the sun upon it,
Its lustrous splendour like to gold.

Three twenties of trees are there,
Their crests swing together but do not clash,
From each of those trees three hundred are fed
With fruits many-tasted, that have cast their rind.

There is a well in the noble (?) sídh;
There are thrice fifty mantles of various hue,
And a clasp of gold, all lustrous,
Holds the corner[97] of each coloured cloak.

A vat there is of heady mead
Being dispensed to the household;
Still it lasts, in unchanged wise,
Full to the brim, everlastingly.

There is a maiden in the noble (?) house
Surpassing the women of Éire,
She steps forward, with yellow hair,
Beautiful, many-gifted she.

Her discourse with each in turn
Is beauteous, is marvellous,
The heart of each one breaks
With longing and love for her.

The noble maiden said:
"Who is that youth whom we do not know?
If thou be he, come hither awhile—
The gillie of the Man from Murthemne."[98]

I went to her slowly, slowly,
Fear for my honour seized me,
She asked me, "Comes he hither,
The famous son of Dechtire?"

(Laegh addresses Cuchulain)

Alas, that he[99] went not long ago,
And every person asking it,
That he might see, as it is,
The mighty house that I have seen.

If all Éire were mine,
And the kingdom of Magh Breg of gold,
I would give it (no small test)
Could I frequent the place where I have been!

FOOTNOTES:

[97] Lit. "ear."

[98] i.e. Cuchulain, whose home-lands lay in the Plain of Murthemne, in the district of Co. Louth; Laegh was Cuchulain's charioteer.

[99] i.e. Cuchulain himself.

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[THE LAMENTATION OF FAND WHEN SHE IS
ABOUT TO LEAVE CUCHULAIN]

From the "Sickbed of Cuchulain."

Happier it were for me to be here,
Subject to thee without reproach,
Than to go,—though strange it may seem to thee,—
To the royal seat of Aed Abrat.

The man is thine, O Emer,
He has broken from me, O noble wife,
No less, the thing that my hand cannot reach,
I am fated to desire it.

Many men were seeking me
Both in shelters and in secret places;
My tryst was never made with them,
Because I myself was high-minded.

Joyless she who gives love to one
Who does not heed her love;
It were better for her to be destroyed
If she be not loved as she loves.

With fifty women hast thou come hither,
Noble Emer, of the yellow locks,
To overthrow Fand, it were not well
To kill her in her misery.

Three times fifty have I there,
—Beautiful, marriageable women,—
Together with me in the fort:
They will not abandon me.

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[MIDER'S CALL TO FAIRY-LAND]

From the "Wooing of Etain."

O Befind, wilt thou come with me,
To the wondrous land of melody?
The crown of their head like the primrose hair,
Their bodies below as the colour of snow.

There in that land is no "mine" or "thine,"
White the teeth there, eyebrows black,
Brilliant the eyes—great is the host—
And each cheek the hue of the foxglove.

How heady soever the ale of Inis Fál
More intoxicating is the ale of the Great Land;
A marvel among lands the land of which I speak,
No young man there enters on old age.

Like the purple of the plains each neck,
Like the ousel's egg the colour of the eye;
Though fair to the sight are the Plains of Fál
They are a desert to him who has known the Great Plain.

Warm, sweet streams across the country,
Choice of mead and wine,
Distinguished beings who know no stain,
Conception without sin, without lust.

We behold everyone on every side,
And none beholds us;
The gloom of Adam's transgression it is
Conceals us from their reckoning.

O Woman, if thou come among my strong people,
A golden top will crown thy head;
Fresh swine-flesh, new milk and ale for drink
Thou shalt have with me, O woman fair!

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[THE SONG OF THE FAIRIES]

When they made the road across the bog of Lamrach for
Mider, their King.

Pile on the soil; thrust on the soil:
Red are the oxen around who toil:
Heavy the troops that my words obey;
Heavy they seem, and yet men are they.
Strongly, as piles, are the tree-trunks placed:
Red are the wattles above them laced:
Tired are your hands, and your glances slant;
One woman's winning this toil may grant!

Oxen ye are, but revenge shall see;
Men who are white shall your servants be;
Rushes from Teffa are cleared away;
Grief is the price that the man shall pay:
Stones have been cleared from the rough Meath ground;
Where shall the gain or the harm be found?
Thrust it in hand! Force it in hand!
Nobles this night, as an ox-troop, stand;
Hard is the task that is asked, and who
From the bridging of Lamrach shall gain, or rue?

A. H. Leahy.

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[THE GREAT LAMENTATION OF DEIRDRE
FOR THE SONS OF USNA]

"As to Deirdre, she was a year in the household of Conchobar, after the death of the Sons of Usna. And though it might be a little thing to raise her head or to bring a smile over her lip, never once did she do it through all that space of time.... She took not sufficiency of food or sleep, nor lifted her head from her knee. When people of amusement were sent to her, she would break out into lamentation:—

Splendid in your eyes may be the impetuous champions
Who resort to Emain after a foray;
More brilliant yet was the return
Of Usna's heroes to their home!

Noisi bearing pleasant mead of hazel-nuts;
I myself bathed him at the fire;
Ardan bore an ox or boar of goodly size,
Ainle, a load of faggots on his stately back.

Sweet though the excellent mead be found
Drunk by the son of Ness of mighty conflicts;
I have shared ere now, from a chase on the borders,
Abundant provender more delicious!

When for the cooking-hearth noble Noisi
Unbound the faggots on the forest hero-board,
More pleasant than honey was each food,
Better than all other the spoil brought in by Usna's sons.

How melodious soever at every time
May be the sound of pipes and horns,
Here to-day I make my confession,
I have heard music sweeter far!

Here with Conchobar the king
Sweet the sound of pipes and horns;
More melodious to me the music,
Famous and entrancing, of Usna's sons.

The sound of the wave was the voice of Noisi,
Melodious music that wearied not ever;
Mellow the rich-toned notes of Ardan,
Or the deep chant of Ainle through the hunting-booth.

They have laid Noisi in the grave;
Woeful to me was that convey,[100]
The company whose act poured out for them
The venomed draught from which they died.

Loved one of the well-trimmed beard! most fair is thy renown!
Shapely one, though thy renown be fair!
Alas! to-day I rise not up
To greet the coming of Usna's sons.

Beloved thy firm and upright mind!
Beloved, high champion, modest-hearted,
After our wandering through the forests of Fál,[101]
Gentle the caress of midnight.

Dear the grey eye, a woman's love;
Though stern of aspect to the foe!
As we passed through the trees to the simple tryst,
Delightful thy deep notes across the sombre woods!

I sleep no more!
No more I stain my finger-nails with red;
No greeting comes to me who watch—
The sons of Usna return no more.

I sleep not!
Through half the wakeful night
My mind is wandering out amongst the hosts;
Yet more than that, I neither eat nor smile.

For me to-day no instant of deep joy,
Nor noble house, nor rich adornments please;
In Emain's gatherings of her mighty men
I find no peace, nor pleasure, nor repose.

Splendid as in your eyes may be the impetuous champions
Who resort to Emain after a foray;
More brilliant yet was the return
Of Usna's heroes to their home!"

When King Conchobar sought to soothe her, she would answer:

"What, O Conchobar, of thee?
To me nought but tears and lamentation hast thou meted out;
This is my life, so long as life shall last;
Thy love for me is as a flame put out.[102]

He who to me was fairest under heaven,
He who was most beloved,
Thou hast torn him from me, great was the injury,
I see him not until I die.

The secret of my grief, that it is gone,
The form of Usna's son revealed to me;
A pile I see dark-black above a corpse,
Bright and well known to me beyond all else.

---

Break not, my heart, to-day!
I sink ere long into an early grave;
Like to the strong sea-wave
The grief that binds me, if thou but knowest, O King!

What, O Conchobar, of thee?
To me nought but tears and lamentation hast thou meted out;
This is my life, so long as life shall last;
Thy love, methinks, is as a flame put out."

FOOTNOTES:

[100] i.e. Fergus mac Roy and his sons, who induced the sons of Usna to return with them to Ireland, where they were slain by King Conchobar.

[101] Fál is a poetic name for Ireland; Inisfáil means "the Island of destiny" or of "knowledge."

[102] Lit. "is not lasting."

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OSSIANIC POETRY

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"Were but the brown leaf which the wood sheds from it gold—were but the white billow silver—Fionn would have given it all away."—The Colloquy with the Ancients.

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[FIRST WINTER-SONG]

A chill wind raging;
The sun low keeping,
Swift to set
O'er seas high sweeping.

Dull red the fern;
Shapes are shadows:
Wild geese mourn
O'er misty meadows.

Keen cold limes
Each weaker wing.
Icy times—
Such I sing!
Take my tidings!
Alfred Perceval Graves.

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[SECOND WINTER-SONG]

Cold till Doom!
Glowers more fearfully the gloom!
Each gleaming furrow is a river,
A loch in each ford's room.

Each pool is deepened to a perilous pit,
A standing-stone each plain, a wood each moor;
The clamouring flight of birds no shelter finds,
White snow winds towards the door.

Like to a spectral host each sharp slim shape,
Each leaping lake swelled to a mighty main;
Wide as a wether's skin each falling flake,
Shield-broad, each drop of rain.

Swift frost again hath fastened all the ways,
It strove and struggled upwards o'er the wold,
About Colt's standing-stone the tempest sways,
Shuddering, men cry, "'Tis cold!"

---

[IN PRAISE OF MAY]

Ascribed to Fionn mac Cumhaill.

May-day! delightful day!
Bright colours play the vale along.
Now wakes at morning's slender ray
Wild and gay the blackbird's song.

Now comes the bird of dusty hue,
The loud cuckoo, the summer-lover;
Branchy trees are thick with leaves;
The bitter, evil time is over.

Swift horses gather nigh
Where half dry the river goes;
Tufted heather clothes the height;
Weak and white the bogdown blows.

Corncrake sings from eve to morn,
Deep in corn, a strenuous bard!
Sings the virgin waterfall,
White and tall, her one sweet word.

Loaded bees with puny power
Goodly flower-harvest win;
Cattle roam with muddy flanks;
Busy ants go out and in.

Through the wild harp of the wood
Making music roars the gale—
Now it settles without motion,
On the ocean sleeps the sail.

Men grow mighty in the May,
Proud and gay the maidens grow;
Fair is every wooded height;
Fair and bright the plain below.

A bright shaft has smit the streams,
With gold gleams the water-flag;
Leaps the fish, and on the hills
Ardour thrills the leaping stag.

Loudly carols the lark on high,
Small and shy, his tireless lay,
Singing in wildest, merriest mood,
Delicate-hued, delightful May.

T. W. Rolleston.

---

[THE ISLE OF ARRAN]

Arran of many stags!
Her very shoulders washed by ocean's foam;
Of companies of hardy men the home,
Whose blue spears reddened oft along her crags
Where the quick-leaping deer doth roam.
Beneath her russet oaks the acorns fall,
Cool water in her streams, and, scattered all,
Dark berries lurk, like down-dropped hidden tears,
Beneath her slowly-moving grasses tall.

Greyhounds there were in her, and beagles brown;
And, when the winding horn her stillness shocks,
From out the friendly shelter of her rocks
The startled stag leaps down.
Around her noble crags, in thickening flocks,
To one another wheeling sea-mews cry;
Yet, all unmoved, the fawns feed silently,
Unconscious of the storm-cloud's gathering frown
That spreads across the leaden autumn sky.

Smooth were her level lands and sleek her swine,
Cheerful her fields (true is the tale I tell)
The heavy hazel-boughs remembered well,
The purple crop, where bramble-trails entwine.

Above the nestling homesteads of the dell.
Her whispering streams, her clear deep pools I miss,
Where brown trout browse beneath the fairy liss;
Pleasant thine isle, Arran of bounding stags,
On such a sultry summer's day as this.

---

[THE PARTING OF GOLL FROM
HIS WIFE]

When they are shut up by Fionn on a sea-girt rock,
without chance of escape.

A Dialogue

(Goll speaks)

The end is come; upon this narrow rock
To-morrow I must die;
Wife of the ruddy cheeks and hair of flame,
Leave me to-night and fly.

Seek out the camp of Fionn and of his men
Upon the westward side;
Take there, in time to come, another mate.
Here I abide.

(Goll's wife replies)

Which way, O Goll, is my way, and thou perished?
Alas! few friends have I!
Small praise that woman hath whose lord is gone
And no protector nigh!

What man should I wed? I whom great Goll cherished
And made his wife?
Where in the East or West should one be sought
To mend my broken life?

Shall I take Oísin, son of Fionn the Wise?
Or Carroll of the blood-stained hand?
Shall I make Angus, son of Hugh, my prize?
Or swift-foot Corr, chief of the fighting-band?

I am as good as they; aye, good and better,
Daughter of Conall, Monarch of the West,
Fostered was I with Conn the Hundred-Fighter,
Best among all the best.

Thee out of all I loved, thee my first master,
Gentlest and bravest thou;
Seven years we lived and loved, through calm and tumult,
And shall I leave thee now?

From that night till to-night I found thee never
Of harsh and churlish mind;
And here I vow, no other man shall touch me,
Kind or unkind.

Here on this narrow crag, foodless and sleepless,
Thou takest thy last stand;
A hundred heroes, Goll, lie rotting round thee,
Slain by thy dauntless hand.

In the wide ocean near us, life is teeming;
Yet on this barren rock
I sink from hunger, and the wild briny waters
My thirst-pangs mock.

Fierce is our hunger, fierce are the five battalions
Sent here to conquer thee;
But fiercer yet the drought that steals my beauty
Midst this surrounding sea.

Though all my dear loved brothers by one caitiff
Lay slaughtered in my sight,
That man I'd call my friend, yea, I would love him,
Could my thirst ease to-night.

Eat, Son of Morna, batten on these dead bodies,
This is my last behest;
Feast well, gaunt Goll, then quench thy awful craving
Here at my breast.

Nought is there more to fear, nought to be hoped for,
Of life and all bereft
High on this crag, abandoned and forsaken,
Nor hope nor shame is left.

(Goll speaks)

King Conall's daughter, cease this mad entreaty,
Cease thou, I pray;
Never have I a woman's counsel asked for,
Far less to-day.

Oh! pitiful how this thing hath befallen,
Little red mouth!
Lips that of old made speech and happy music,
Now dry and harsh with drouth.

Ever I feared this end; my haunting terror
By wave and land
Was to be caught by Fionn and his battalions
On some stark, foodless strand.

Depart not yet; upon this barren islet,
Beneath this brazen sky,
Sweet lips and gentle heart, we sit together
Until we die.

---

[YOUTH AND AGE]

From the "Poem-book of Fionn."

Better to me the shining locks of youth,
Or raven's dusky hue,
Than drear old age, which chilly wisdom brings,
If what they say be true.

I only know that as I pass the road,
No woman looks my way;
They think my head and heart alike are cold—
Yet I have had my day.

---

[CHILL WINTER]

Nipping this winter's night, the snow drifts by,
Below the hill the boisterous billows roar;
'Tis bitter cold to-night the mountain o'er,
Yet still the ungovernable stag bells forth his cry.

To-night laid not his side upon the ground
The deer of Slievecarn of the hundred fights;
He, with the stag of Echtge's frozen heights,
Caught the wolves' snarl, and quivered at the sound.

I, Caoilte, wakeful lie, and Dermot Donn,
We, with keen Oscar of the footsteps fleet,
Watch the slow hours of moving night retreat,
Whilst the dread pack of hungry wolves comes on.

Well rests the ruddy deer in dawn's dim light,
Deep breathing near the covering earthen mound,
Hidden from sight, as 'twere beneath the ground,
All in the latter end of chilly night.

I sit to-night amongst the ancient race,
And of the younger men but few I know,
Though, in the ice-bound mornings long ago,
From my firm grasp the javelin flew apace.

I thank Heaven's King, I thank sweet Mary's Son,
My hand it was that silenced countless men;
They lie stretched out beneath us in the glen,
Colder than we, death-cold, lies many and many an one.

---

[THE SLEEP-SONG OF GRAINNE
OVER DERMUID]

When fleeing from Fionn
From the "Poem-book of Fionn."

Sleep a little, a little little, thou needest feel no fear or dread,
Youth to whom my love is given, I am watching near thy head.

Sleep a little, with my blessing, Dermuid of the lightsome eye,
I will guard thee as thou dreamest, none shall harm while I am by.

Sleep, O little lamb, whose homeland was the country of the lakes,
In whose bosom torrents tremble, from whose sides the river breaks.

Sleep as slept the ancient poet, Dedach, minstrel of the South,
When he snatched from Conall Cernach Eithne of the laughing mouth.

Sleep as slept the comely Finncha 'neath the falls of Assaroe,
Who, when stately Slaine sought him, laid the Hardhead Failbe low.

Sleep in joy, as slept fair Aine, Gailan's daughter of the west,
Where, amid the flaming torches, she and Duvach found their rest.

Sleep as Degha, who in triumph, ere the sun sank o'er the land,
Stole the maiden he had craved for, plucked her from fierce Deacall's hand.

Fold of Valour, sleep a little, Glory of the Western world;
I am wondering at thy beauty, marvelling how thy locks are curled.

Like the parting of two children, bred together in one home,
Like the breaking of two spirits, if I did not see you come.

Swirl the leaves before the tempest, moans the nightwind o'er the lea,
Down its stony bed the streamlet hurries onward to the sea.

In the swaying boughs the linnet twitters in the darkling light,
On the upland wastes of heather wings the grouse its heavy flight.

In the marshland by the river sulks the otter in his den;
While the piping of the peeweet sounds across the distant fen.

On the stormy mere the wild-duck pushes outward from the brake,
With her downy brood beside her seeks the centre of the lake.

In the east the restless roe-deer bellows to his frightened hind;
On thy track the wolf-hounds gather, sniffing up against the wind.

Yet, O Dermuid, sleep a little, this one night our fear hath fled,
Youth to whom my love is given, see, I watch beside thy bed.

---

[THE SLAYING OF CONBEG]

A beloved hound of Fionn's which Goll mac Morna drowned
in despite of Fionn.

Caoilte sang this:

Mournful to me the slaying of Conbeg,[103]
Little hound, great was his brightness;
Never was one more deft of paw
Seen in the chase of swine or deer.

Tribulation to me the slaying of Conbeg,
Little hound, of the baying voice;
Never was one more deft of paw
Found in the running down of the deer.

Tribulation to me the drowning of Conbeg
Upon the mighty grey-green seas;
His cruel loss, it brought contention,[104]
A "fill of sorrow" was his death.

FOOTNOTES:

[103] Conbeg means "little hound."

[104] i.e. between Fionn and Goll; Goll was leader of the Connacht Fians and the deadly enemy of Fionn.

---

[THE FAIRIES' LULLABY]

My smooth green rush, my laughter sweet,
My little plant in the rocky cleft,
Were it not for the spell on thy tiny feet
Thou wouldst not here be left,
Not thou.

Of the race of Coll and Conn art thou,
My laughter, sweet and low art thou;
As you crow on my knee,
I would lift you with me,
Were it not for the mark that is on your feet
I would lift you away,
and away,
with me.

---

[SONG OF THE FOREST TREES]

O man that for Fergus of the feasts dost kindle fire,
Whether afloat or ashore burn not the king of woods.

Monarch of Innisfail's forests the woodbine is, whom none may hold captive;
No feeble sovereign's effort is it to hug all tough trees in his embrace.

The pliant woodbine if thou burn, wailings for misfortune will abound,
Dire extremity at weapons' points or drowning in great waves will follow.

Burn not the precious apple-tree of spreading and low-sweeping bough;
Tree ever decked in bloom of white, against whose fair head all men put forth the hand.

The surly blackthorn is a wanderer, a wood that the artificer burns not;
Throughout his body, though it be scanty, birds in their flocks warble.

The noble willow burn not, a tree sacred to poems;
Within his bloom bees are a-sucking, all love the little cage.

The graceful tree with the berries, the wizard's tree, the rowan, burn;
But spare the limber tree; burn not the slender hazel.

Dark is the colour of the ash; timber that makes the wheels to go;
Rods he furnishes for horsemen's hands, his form turns battle into flight.

Tenterhook among woods the spiteful briar is, burn him that is so keen and green;
He cuts, he flays the foot, him that would advance he forcibly drags backward.

Fiercest heat-giver of all timber is green oak, from him none may escape unhurt;
By partiality for him the head is set on aching, and by his acrid embers the eye is made sore.

Alder, very battle-witch of all woods, tree that is hottest in the fight—
Undoubtedly burn at thy discretion both the alder and whitethorn.

Holly, burn it green; holly, burn it dry;
Of all trees whatsoever the critically best is holly.

Elder that hath tough bark, tree that in truth hurts sore;
Him that furnishes horses to the armies from the sídh burn so that he be charred.

The birch as well, if he be laid low, promises abiding fortune;
Burn up most sure and certainly the stalks that bear the constant pods.

Suffer, if it so please thee, the russet aspen to come headlong down;
Burn, be it late or early, the tree with the palsied branch.

Patriarch of long-lasting woods is the yew, sacred to feasts, as is well-known;
Of him now build ye dark-red vats of goodly size.

Ferdedh, thou faithful one, wouldst thou but do my behest:
To thy soul as to thy body, O man, 'twould work advantage.
Standish Hayes O'Grady.

---

EARLY CHRISTIAN POEMS

---

[ST. PATRICK'S BREASTPLATE]

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.

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.

Kuno Meyer.

---

[PATRICK'S BLESSING ON MUNSTER]

Blessing from the Lord on High
Over Munster fall and lie;
To her sons and daughters all
Choicest blessings still befall;
Fruitful blessing on the soil
That supports her faithful toil!

Blessing full of ruddy health,
Blessing full of every wealth
That her borders furnish forth,
East and west and south and north;
Blessings from the Lord on high
Over Munster fall and lie!

Blessing on her peaks in air,
Blessing on her flag-stones bare;
Blessing from her ridges flow
To her grassy glens below;
Blessings from the Lord on High
Over Munster fall and lie!

As the sands upon her shore
Underneath her ships, for store,

Be her hearths, a twinkling host
Over mountain, plain and coast!
Blessing from the Lord on High
Over Munster fall and lie!

Alfred Perceval Graves.

---

[COLUMCILLE'S FAREWELL TO
ARAN OF THE SAINTS]

St. Columcille, or Columba, was born 521, died 597 a.d.

Farewell from me to Ara's Isle,
Her smile is at my heart no more,
No more to me the boon is given
With hosts of heaven to walk her shore.

How far, alas! How far, alas!
Have I to pass from Ara's view,
To mix with men from Mona's fen,
With men from Alba's mountains blue.

O Ara, darling of the West,
Ne'er be he blest who loves not thee!
O God, cut short her foeman's breath,
Let hell and death his portion be.

O Ara, darling of the West,
Ne'er be he blest who loves not thee,
Herdless and childless may he go,
In endless woe his doom to dree.

O Ara, darling of the West,
Ne'er be he blest who loves thee not,
When angels wing from heaven on high,
And leave the sky for this dear spot.

Douglas Hyde.

---

[ST. COLUMBA IN IONA]

From an Irish MS. in the Burgundian Library, Brussels.

Delightful would it be to me
On a pinnacle of rock,
That I might often see
The face of the ocean;
That I might watch its heaving waves
Over the wide sea
When they chant music to their Father
Upon the world's course;
That I might see its level sparkling strand,
It would be no cause of sorrow;
That I might hear the song of the wonderful birds,
Source of happiness;
That I might hear the thunder of the clamorous waves
Upon the rocks;
That I might hear the roar by the side of the church
Of the surrounding sea;
That I might watch its noble bird-flocks
Flying over the watery surf;
That I might see the ocean-monsters,
Greatest of all wonders;
That I might observe its ebb and flood
In their cycles;

That my mystical name might be, i'faith,
"Cul ri Erin."
That on my heart contrition might fall
On looking upon her;
That I might bewail my evils all,
Though it were not easy to number them;
That I might bless the Lord
Who orders all;
Heaven with its countless bright orders
Land, strand and flood;
That I might search in all the books
That which would help my soul;
At times kneeling to the Heaven of my heart,
At times singing psalms;
At times meditating on the King of Heaven,
Chief of the Holy Ones;
At times at work without compulsion
This would be delightful.
At times plucking duilisc from the rocks;
At other times fishing;
At times distributing food to the poor,
At times in a hermitage;
The best guidance from the presence of God
Has been vouchsafed to me;
The King whom I serve will keep from me
All things that would deceive me.

Eugene O'Curry.

---

[HYMN TO THE DAWN]

Ascribed to St. Cellach of Killala, when imprisoned in a hollow oak on the morning before his murder by his old comrades, circa 540.

Hail to the morning fair, that falls as a flame on the greensward;
Hail, too, unto Him who bestows her, the morn ever fruitful in blessings.

Robed in her pride she comes, the brilliant sun's little sister,
Hail to thee, Dawn, thrice hail! that lightest my book of the hours.

Thou searchest the secret dwelling, on clansman and kindred thou shinest;
White-necked, beautiful, hail! who makest thine uprising golden!

The chequered page of my booklet tells me my life was erring;
Melcroin, 'tis thee whom I fear, 'tis from thee that shall come my undoing.

Scallcrow, thou paltry fowl, sharp-beaked, grey-coated and cruel,
Full well do I guess thy desire, no friendship hast thou unto Cellach.

Raven, O Raven, that croakest, from the top of the rath thou art watching,
Wait but awhile, bird of death, and most surely my flesh will suffice thee.

Fiercely the kite of Cluain Eo will take his part in the scramble,
His talons filled with my flesh, flying off to his haunt in the yew-tree.

Swift through the darkling woodland the foxes will scent out my slaughter,
They on the confines trackless my flesh and my blood will devour.

The mighty wolf from his lair 'neath the rath on the East of Drumm Dara,
To the banquet of bones will betake him, prime chief of the curs he will boast him.

Wednesday night past I saw visions, the wild dogs troubled my slumbers,
Hither and thither they dragged me through russet ferns of the coppice.

'Twas in a dream I saw it; to the lonely green glen men bore me;
Five men were we who went thither, I saw only four returning.[105]

'Twas in a dream I saw it; to their dwelling my comrades allured me;
They poured out the cup of old friendship, they quaffed to my luck and long living.

Scant is thy tail, tiny wren; thy doleful pipe is prophetic;
Perhaps it is thou art the traitor; thou, and not they, my destroyer.

For why should Mac Deora deceive me? His father and mine were brothers;
Oh! monstrous deed and unholy, that he should desire to harm me!

Or why should Meldalua hurt me? my cousin, is he by his mother;
Twin sisters his mother and mine, yet in truth it was he who betrayed me.

What ill can I get from Melsenig? For a pure man's son I have held him;
Melsenig, the son of Melibar, 'tis he who hath plotted my downfall.

Melcroin, my playfellow Melcroin, the crime of thy act is yet deeper;
For ten thousand ingots of gold would not Cellach have stooped to betray thee.

Vain pelf hath allured thee, O Melcroin, the love of this world's fleeting pleasures,
For the guerdon of hell hast thou sold me, hast sold me, thy friend and thy brother!

All precious things that I had, my treasures, my sleek-coated horses,
Would I have given to Melcroin, to win him away from this treason!

Yet in high heaven above me, the great Son of Mary is speaking;
"Thou art forsaken on earth; but a welcome awaits thee in heaven."

FOOTNOTES:

[105] Compare "So the two brothers and their murdered man rode past fair Florence," in Keats' Isabella or the Pot of Basil, Stanza xxvii.

---

[THE SONG OF MANCHAN
THE HERMIT]

Abbot of Liath Manchan, now Lemanaghan, in King's Co.
Died 665 a.d.

I wish, O Son of the Living God, O Ancient Eternal King,
For a hidden hut in the wilderness, a simple secluded thing.

The all-blithe lithe little lark in his place, chanting his lightsome lay;
The calm, clear pool of the Spirit's grace, washing my sins away.

A wide, wild woodland on every side, its shades the nursery
Of glad-voiced songsters, who at day-dawn chant their sweet psalm for me.

A southern aspect to catch the sun, a brook across the floor,
A choice land, rich with gracious gifts, down-stretching from my door.

Few men and wise, these I would prize, men of content and power,
To raise Thy praise throughout the days at each canonical hour.

Four times three, three times four, fitted for every need,
To the King of the Sun praying each one, this were a grace, indeed.

Twelve in the church to chant the hours, kneeling there twain and twain;
And I before, near the chancel door, listening their low refrain.

A pleasant church with an Altar-cloth, where Christ sits at the board,
And a shining candle shedding its ray on the white words of the Lord.

Brief meals between, when prayer is done, our modest needs supply;
No greed in our share of the simple fare, no boasting or ribaldry.

This is the husbandry I choose, laborious, simple, free,
The fragrant leek about my door, the hen and the humble bee.

Rough raiment of tweed, enough for my need, this will my King allow;
And I to be sitting praying to God under every leafy bough.

---

[A PRAYER]

Be Thou my Vision, O Lord of my heart,
Naught is all else to me, save that Thou art.

Thou my best thought by day and by night,
Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light.

Be Thou my Wisdom, Thou my true Word;
I ever with Thee, Thou with me, Lord.

Thou my great Father, I thy dear son;
Thou in me dwelling, I with Thee one.

Be Thou my battle-shield, sword for the fight,
Be Thou my dignity, Thou my delight.

Thou my soul's shelter, Thou my high tower;
Raise Thou me heavenward, Power of my power.

Riches I heed not or man's empty praise,
Thou mine inheritance now and always.

Thou, and Thou only, first in my heart,
High King of Heaven, my treasure Thou art.

King of the seven heavens, grant me for dole,
Thy love in my heart, Thy light in my soul.

Thy light from my soul, Thy love from my heart,
King of the seven heavens, may they never depart.

With the High King of heaven, after victory won,
May I reach heaven's joys, O Bright heaven's Sun!

Heart of my own heart, whatever befall,
Still be my Vision, O Ruler of all.

---

[THE LOVES OF LIADAN
AND CURITHIR]

St. Cummine, in whose days the lovers lived, died 661. The
language is of the ninth century.

A young poet and poetess of Connaught were betrothed; but during the year's interval preceding their marriage, Liadan, for some unexplained reason, took the veil. When Curithir returned to fetch her to his home, he found that by her vows she had for ever separated herself from him. In his despair he determined to follow her example and become a monk. The lovers placed themselves together under the direction of St. Cummine, a severe and hard man, who permitted them to meet, with the object of accusing them of wrong-doing. Finally, he gave Curithir the choice of seeing Liadan without speaking to her, or speaking to her without seeing. He chooses the latter, and henceforth they wander round each other's cells, speaking together through the wattled walls, but never looking on each other's faces. The time comes when this can be no longer borne, and Curithir sails away to strange lands on pilgrimage, so that Liadan saw him no more. She died upon the flagstone on which Curithir was wont to pray, and was buried beneath it.

The poem is in the form of a dialogue.

(Liadan speaks)

Curithir, maker of sweet song,
By me beloved, you do me wrong!
Dear master of the two Grey Feet,[106]
Is it like this we meet?

(Curithir speaks)

Of late,
Since I and Liadan understood our fate,
Each day hath been a month of fasting days,
Each month a year of doubting of God's ways.

I had my choice
To see her gentle form, or hear her voice;
"Some comfort yet may reach her from my speech,"
I said; "we have been ever looking each at each."

(Liadan speaks)

His voice comes up to me again,
Is it in blame, or is it pain?
I catch its accents strained and deep,
And cannot sleep.

The flagstone where he bent the knee,
Beside the wattled oratory,
'Tis there, at eve, each lonely day,
I go to pray.

Never for him dear hearth or wife,
Homestead, or innocent baby life;
No mate at his right hand
Will ever stand.

Cummine accuses her of wrong and she turns on him:

Cleric, thy thought is ill;
Not with my will you link my name with his,
From Loch Seng's borderland he comes, I wis,
I from Iar-Conchin's Cill.

We met, you say;
But sure, no honeyed pastures of the flock
Where lover's arms in lover's arms enlock,
Was ours that May.

If Curithir is gone to-day
To teach the little scholars of the school,
Small help he'll get who does not know his rule;
Curithir's thoughts are very far away.

At length the news is brought to her that Curithir is gone for ever, and she breaks out into a passionate lament.

The Cry of Liadan after Curithir

'Tis done!
Joyless the victory I have won,
The tender heart of him I loved I wrung!

He called me near
A little space to please him, but the fear
Of God in heaven withheld me, and I would not hear.

Great gain
To us the way love pointed plain,
To win the gates of Paradise through pain.

Reckless and vain
The whim that caused my lover's love to dim;
Great ever was my gentleness to him.

Liadan am I,
And Curithir I loved; it is no lie,
He would not doubt me now if he were by.

Short while were we
Together in the closest intimacy,
Sweet was the time to him, and sweet to me.

The music of the lightly waving tree,
When Curithir was here, would sing to me,
With the deep voice of the empurpled sea.

Surely to-day
No whim of mine would turn his heart away,
No senseless act or speech, do what I may.

And to myself I say,
My love to him was given, my heart, unshriven,
At his dear feet I lay.

My heart is flame,
A tempest heat no ice on earth can tame,
I cry "I was to blame! I was to blame!"

FOOTNOTES:

[106] A play on Curithir's patronymic, Mac Doborchon, i.e. "Son of the Otter."

---

[THE LAY OF PRINCE MARVAN]

In praise of his hermit life. A reply to his brother, King Guaire, of Connaught, when asked by him why he did not dwell in the Palace.

King Guaire died 662; but the poem, as we have it, is of
the tenth century.

here is a shieling hidden in the wood
Unknown to all save God;
An ancient ash-tree and a hazel-bush
Their sheltering shade afford.

Around the doorway's heather-laden porch
Wild honeysuckles twine;
Prolific oaks, within the forest's gloom,
Shed mast upon fat swine.

Many a sweet familiar woodland path
Comes winding to my door;
Lowly and humble is my hermitage,
Poor, and yet not too poor.

From the high gable-end my lady's throat
Her trilling chant outpours,
Her sombre mantle, like the ousel's coat,
Shows dark above my doors.

From the high oakridge where the roe-deer leaps
The river-banks between,
Renowned Mucraime and Red Roigne's plains
Lie wrapped in robes of green.

Here in the silence, where no care intrudes,
I dwell at peace with God;
What gift like this hast thou to give, Prince Guaire,
Were I to roam abroad?

The heavy branches of the green-barked yew
That seem to bear the sky;
The spreading oak, that shields me from the storm,
When winds rise high.

Like a great hostel, welcoming to all,
My laden apple-tree;
Low in the hedge, the modest hazel-bush
Drops ripest nuts for me.

Round the pure spring, that rises crystal clear,
Straight from the rock,
Wild goats and swine, red fox, and grazing deer,
At sundown flock.

The host of forest-dwellers of the soil
Trysting at night;
To meet them foxes come, a peaceful troop,
For my delight.

Like exiled princes, flocking to their home,
They gather round;
Beneath the river bank great salmon leap,
And trout abound.

Rich rowan clusters, and the dusky sloe,
The bitter, dark blackthorn,
Ripe whortle-berries, nuts of amber hue,
The cup-enclosed acorn.

A clutch of eggs, sweet honey, mead and ale,
God's goodness still bestows;
Red apples, and the fruitage of the heath,
His constant mercy shows.

The goodly tangle of the briar-trail
Climbs over all the hedge;
Far out of sight, the trembling waters wail
Through rustling rush and sedge.

Luxuriant summer spreads its coloured cloak
And covers all the land;
Bright blue-bells, sunk in woods of russet oak,
Their blooms expand.

The movements of the bright red-breasted men,
A lovely melody!
Above my house, the thrush and cuckoo's strain
A chorus wakes for me.

The little music-makers of the world
Chafers and bees,
Drone answer to the tumbling torrent's roar
Beneath the trees.

From gable-ends, from every branch and stem,
Sounds sweetest music now;
Unseen, in restless flight, the lively wren
Flits 'neath the hazel-bough.

Deep in the firmament the sea-gulls fly,
One widely-circling wreath;
The cheerful cuckoo's call, the poult's reply,
Sound o'er the distant heath.

The lowing of the calves in summer-time,
Best season of the year!
Across the fertile plain, pleasant the sound,
Their call I hear.

Voice of the wind against the branchy wood
Upon the deep blue sky;
Most musical the ceaseless waterfall,
The swan's shrill cry.

No hired chorus, trained to praise its chief,
Comes welling up for me;
The music made for Christ the Ever-young,
Sounds forth without a fee.

Though great thy wealth, Prince Guaire, happier live
Those who can boast no hoard;
Who take at Christ's hand that which He doth give
As their award.

Far from life's tumult and the din of strife
I dwell with Him in peace,
Content and grateful, for Thy gifts, High Prince,
Daily increase.

(Guaire replies)

Wisely thou choosest, Marvan; I a king
Would lay my kingdom by,
With Colman's glorious heritage I'd part
To bear thee company!

---

[THE SONG OF CREDE, DAUGHTER
OF GUARE]

(In the battle of Aidne, Crede, the daughter of King Guare of Aidne, beheld Dinertach of the HyFidgenti, who had come to the help of Guare, with seventeen wounds upon his breast. Then she fell in love with him. He died and was buried in the cemetery of Colman's Church.)

These are the arrows that murder sleep
At every hour in the night's black deep;
Pangs of Love through the long day ache,
All for the dead Dinertach's sake.

Great love of a hero from Roiny's plain
Has pierced me through with immortal pain,
Blasted my beauty and left me to blanch
A riven bloom on a restless branch.

Never was song like Dinertach's speech
But holy strains that to Heaven's gate reach;
A front of flame without boast or pride,
Yet a firm, fond mate for a fair maid's side.

A growing girl—I was timid of tongue,
And never trysted with gallants young,
But since I have won into passionate age,
Fierce love-longings my heart engage.

I have every bounty that life could hold,
With Guare, arch-monarch of Aidne cold,
But, fallen away from my haughty folk,
In Irluachair's field my heart lies broke.

There is chanting in glorious Aidne's meadow,
Under St. Colman's Church's shadow;
A hero flame sinks into the tomb—
Dinertach, alas my love and my doom!

Chaste Christ! that now at my life's last breath
I should tryst with Sorrow and mate with Death!
At every hour of the night's black deep,
These are the arrows that murder sleep.

Alfred Perceval Graves.

---

[THE STUDENT AND HIS CAT]

The Irish of this playful poem was written by a student of the Monastery of Carinthia on a copy of St. Paul's Epistles about the close of the eighth century.

I and Pangur Bán, my cat,
'Tis a like task we are at;
Hunting mice is his delight,
Hunting words I sit all night.

Better far than praise of men
'Tis to sit with book and pen;
Pangur bears me no ill-will,
He, too, plies his simple skill.

'Tis a merry thing to see
At our tasks how glad are we,
When at home we sit and find
Entertainment to our mind.

Oftentimes a mouse will stray
In the hero Pangur's way;
Oftentimes my keen thought set
Takes a meaning in its net.

'Gainst the wall he sets his eye
Full and fierce and sharp and sly;
'Gainst the wall of knowledge I
All my little wisdom try.

When a mouse darts from its den,
O! how glad is Pangur then;
O! what gladness do I prove
When I solve the doubts I love.

So in peace our task we ply,
Pangur Bán, my cat, and I;
In our arts we find our bliss,
I have mine, and he has his.

Practice every day has made
Pangur perfect in his trade;
I get wisdom day and night,
Turning darkness into light.

Robin Flower.

---

[THE SONG OF THE SEVEN
ARCHANGELS]

Now, Gabriel, be with my heart
On this first day of seven,
He, first of the Archangels;
And Thou, High King of Heaven.

Michael be mine, if Monday dawn,
Michael I call upon,
There is none like thee, Michael,
None but Jesu, Mary's Son.

And oh if Tuesday sorrow bring,
Let Raphael help it forth,
One of the seven that hears us weep,
Sad women of this earth.

And Uriel hear, if Wednesday wake,
In his nobility,
And heal our wounds and care for us
And calm this wind-torn sea.

And Sariel, should Thursday come
With wilder wind and seas,
On Sariel I cry aloud
For that solace which is his.

For sorrow's fast on Friday,
Out of my need I cry
On Rumiel, my heart's near friend,
Though Heaven I know is nigh.

And Saturday, on Panchel,
While this yellow world is mine,
I call on him while shake the leaves
And the yellow sun doth shine.

The Trinity protect me still—
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 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 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 Eire'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.

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.

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.

Hugh marched forth to fight: I grieved to see him so depart.
And lo! to-night he wanders frozen, rain-drenched, sad betrayed;
But the memory of the lime-white mansions his right hand hath laid
In ashes, warms the hero's heart!

James Clarence Mangan.

---

[A LAMENT FOR THE PRINCES OF
TYRONE AND TYRCONNEL]

Buried in San Pietro Montorio at Rome

Addressed to Nuala, the O'Donnell's sister, by Owen Roe mac an Bhaird (or Ward), the family Bard, in 1608-9.

Beside the wave in Donegal,
In Antrim's glens, or fair Dromore,
Or Killilee,
Or where the sunny waters fall
At Assaroe, near Erna shore,
This could not be.
On Derry's plains, in rich Drumcliff,
Throughout Armagh the Great, renowned
In olden years,
No day could pass but woman's grief
Would rain upon the burial-ground
Fresh floods of tears!

O no!—From Shannon, Boyne, and Suir,
From high Dunluce's castle-walls,
From Lissadill,
Would flock alike both rich and poor:
One wail would rise from Cruachan's halls
To Tara hill;
And some would come from Barrow-side,
And many a maid would leave her home
On Leitrim's plains,
And by melodious Banna's tide,
And by the Mourne and Erne, to come
And swell thy strains!

Oh, horses' hoofs would trample down
The mount whereon the martyr-saint
Was crucified;
From glen and hill, from plain and town,
One loud lament, one thrilling plaint,
Would echo wide.
There would not soon be found, I ween,

One foot of ground among those bands
For museful thought,
So many shriekers of the keen
Would cry aloud, and clap their hands,
All woe-distraught!

Two princes of the line of Conn
Sleep in their cells of clay beside
O'Donnell Roe:
Three royal youths, alas! are gone,
Who lived for Erin's weal, but died
For Erin's woe.
Ah, could the men of Ireland read
The names those noteless burial-stones
Display to view,
Their wounded hearts afresh would bleed,
Their tears gush forth again, their groans
Resound anew!

The youths whose relics moulder here
Were sprung from Hugh, high prince and lord
Of Aileach's lands;
Thy noble brothers, justly dear,
Thy nephew, long to be deplored
By Ulster's bands.
Theirs were not souls wherein dull time
Could domicile decay, or house
Decrepitude!
They passed from earth ere manhood's prime,
Ere years had power to dim their brows,
Or chill their blood.

And who can marvel o'er thy grief,
Or who can blame thy flowing tears,
Who knows their source?
O'Donnell, Dunnasava's chief,
Cut off amid his vernal years,
Lies here a corse
Beside his brother Cathbar, whom
Tyrconnell of the Helmets mourns
In deep despair:
For valour, truth, and comely bloom,
For all that greatens and adorns,
A peerless pair.

Oh, had these twain, and he, the third,
The Lord of Mourne, O'Niall's son
(Their mate in death,
A prince in look, in deed, and word),
Had these three heroes yielded on
The field their breath,
Oh, had they fallen on Criffan's plain,
There would not be a town or clan
From shore to sea,
But would with shrieks bewail the slain,
Or chant aloud the exulting rann
Of jubilee!

---

What do I say? Ah, woe is me!
Already we bewail in vain
Their fatal fall!
And Erin, once the great and free,
Now vainly mourns her breakless chain,
And iron thrall.

Then, daughter of O'Donnell, dry
Thine overflowing eyes, and turn
Thy heart aside,
For Adam's race is born to die,
And sternly the sepulchral urn
Mocks human pride.

Look not, nor sigh, for earthly throne,
Nor place thy trust in arm of clay,
But on thy knees
Uplift thy soul to God alone,
For all things go their destined way
As He decrees.
Embrace the faithful crucifix,
And seek the path of pain and prayer
Thy Saviour trod;
Nor let thy spirit intermix
With earthly hope, with worldly care,
Its groans to God![108]

And Thou, O mighty Lord! whose ways
Are far above our feeble minds
To understand,
Sustain us in these doleful days,
And render light the chain that binds
Our fallen land!

Look down upon our dreary state,
And thro' the ages that may still
Roll sadly on,
Watch Thou o'er hapless Erin's fate,
And shield at least from darker ill
The blood of Conn!

James Clarence Mangan.

FOOTNOTES:

[108] The literal translation of this stanza runs as follows:—

"For God's sake, thy weighty sorrow banish away, O daughter of O'Donnell! Short time till thou in self-same guise must tread the way; the same path's weariness awaits thee. In hand of clay put not thy trust.... Think on the cross that stands beside thee, and, in lieu of thy vain sorrowing, from off the sepulchre lift up thine arm and bid thy grief begone." O'Grady's Cat. of MSS. in the Brit. Mus., pp. 372-73.

---

[THE COUNTY OF MAYO]

Or the "Lament of Thomas Flavell, or Lavell," c. 1660.

On the deck of Patrick Lynch's boat I sat in woeful plight,
Through my sighing all the weary day, and weeping all the night,
Were it not that full of sorrow from my people forth I go,
By the blessed sun! 'tis royally I'd sing thy praise, Mayo!

When I dwelt at home in plenty, and my gold did much abound,
In the company of fair young maids the Spanish ale went round—
'Tis a bitter change from those gay days that now I'm forced to go,
And must leave my bones in Santa Cruz, far from my own Mayo.

They are altered girls in Irrul now; 'tis proud they're grown and high,
With their hair-bags and their top-knots—for I pass their buckles by;
But it's little now I heed their airs, for God will have it so,
That I must depart for foreign lands, and leave my sweet Mayo.

'Tis my grief that Patrick Loughlin is not Earl of Irrul still,
And that Brian Duff no longer rules as Lord upon the hill;
And that Colonel Hugh MacGrady should be lying dead and low,
And I sailing, sailing swiftly from the county of Mayo.

George Fox.[109]

FOOTNOTES:

[109] Lady Ferguson, in her Life of her husband, says that he was the true author of this poem, but that as Fox had a hand in it, he allowed it to be attributed to him. Sir Samuel dedicated his poems to Fox in 1880.

---

[THE OUTLAW OF LOCH LENE]

Oh, many a day have I made good ale in the glen,
That came not of stream or malt—like the brewing of men.
My bed was the ground; my roof, the greenwood above,
And the wealth that I sought, one far kind glance from my love.

Alas! on that night when the horses I drove from the field,
That I was not near from terror my angel to shield.
She stretched forth her arms—her mantle she flung to the wind,
And swam o'er Loch Lene her outlawed lover to find.

Oh would that a freezing, sleet-winged tempest did sweep,
And I and my love were alone, far off on the deep!
I'd ask not a ship, or a bark, or pinnace, to save,—
With her hand round my waist I'd fear not the wind or the wave.

'Tis down by the lake where the wild-tree fringes its sides
The maid of my heart, my fair one of Heaven resides;
I think as at eve she wanders its mazes along,
The birds go to sleep by the sweet, wild twist of her song.

Jeremiah Joseph Callanan.

---

[THE FLOWER OF NUT-BROWN MAIDS]

Seventeenth century.

If thou wilt come with me to the County of Leitrim,
Flower of Nut-brown Maids—
Honey of bees and mead to the beaker's brim
I'll offer thee, Nut-brown Maid.
Where the pure air floats o'er the swinging boats of the strand,
Under the white-topped wave that laves the edge of the sand,
There without fear we will wander together, hand clasped in hand,
Flower of Nut-brown Maids.

---

My heart never gave you liking or love,
Said the Flower of Nut-brown Maids;
Though sweet are your words, there's black famine above,
Said the Flower of Nut-brown Maids;
Will gentle words feed me when need and grim hunger come by?
Better be free than with thee to the woodlands to fly;
What gain to us both if together we famish and die?
Wept the Flower of Nut-brown Maids.

---

I saw her coming towards me o'er the face of the mountain
Like a star glimmering through the mist;
In the field of furze where the slow cows were browsing
In pledge of our love we kissed;
In the bend of the hedge where the tall trees play with the sun,
I wrote her the lines that should bind us for ever in one;
Had you a right to deny me the dues I had won,
O Flower of Nut-brown Maids?

My grief and my torment that thou art not here with me now,
Flower of Nut-brown Maids!
Alone, all alone, it matters not where or how,
O Flower of Nut-brown Maids;
On a slender bed, O little black head, strained close to thee,
Or a heap of hay, until break of day, it were one to me,
Laughing in gladness and glee together, with none to see,
My Flower of Nut-brown Maids.

---

[ROISÍN DUBH]

There's black grief on the plains, and a mist on the hills;
There is fury on the mountains, and that is no wonder;
I would empty the wild ocean with the shell of an egg,
If I could be at peace with thee, my Ros geal dubh.

Long is the course I travelled from yesterday to to-day,
Without, on the edge of the hill, lightly bounding, as I know,
I leapt Loch Erne to find her, though wide was the flood,
With no light of the sun to guide my path, but the Ros geal dubh.

If thou shouldst go to the Aonach to sell thy kine and stock,
If you go, see that you stay not out in the darkness of the night;
Put bolts upon your doors, and a heavy reliable lock,
Or, in faith, the priest will be down on you, on my Ros geal dubh!

O little Rose, sorrow not, nor be lamenting now,
There is pardon from the Pope for thee, sent straight home from Rome,
The friars are coming overseas, across the heaving wave,
And Spanish wine will then be thine, my Ros geal dubh.

There is true love in my heart for thee for the passing of a year,
Love tormenting, love lamenting, heavy love that wearies me,
Love that left me without health, without a path, gone all astray,
And for ever, ever, I did not get my Ros geal dubh!

I would walk Munster with thee and the winding ways of the hills,
In hope I would get your secret and a share of your love;
O fragrant Branch, I have known it, that thou hast love for me,
The flower-blossom of wise women is my Ros geal dubh.

The sea will be red floods, and the skies like blood,
Blood-red in war the world will show on the ridges of the hills;
The mountain glens through Erinn and the brown bogs will be quaking
Before the day she sinks in death, my Ros geal dubh![110]

FOOTNOTES:

[110] Ros geal dubh means the "Fair-dark Rose," here used as a love-title for Ireland; Roisín Dubh means "Little black or dark Rose." The above is a literal translation of the Irish poem upon which Mangan's "Dark Rosaleen" was formed. The opening quatrain is found in Petrie's Ancient Music of Ireland, but not in O'Daly's collection.

---

[MY DARK ROSALEEN]

Over hills and thro' dales,
Have I roamed for your sake;
All yesterday I sailed with sails
On river and on lake.
The Erne at its highest flood
I dashed across unseen,

For there was lightning in my blood,
My Dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
O there was lightning in my blood,
Red lightning lightened thro' my blood,
My Dark Rosaleen!

All day long, in unrest,
To and fro, do I move.
The very soul within my breast
Is wasted for you, love!
The heart in my bosom faints
To think of you, my queen,
My life of life, my saint of saints,
My Dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
To hear your sweet and sad complaints,
My life, my love, my saint of saints,
My Dark Rosaleen!

Woe and pain, pain and woe,
Are my lot, night and noon,
To see your bright face clouded so,
Like to the mournful moon.
But yet will I rear your throne
Again in golden sheen;
'Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone,
My Dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
'Tis you shall have the golden throne,
'Tis you shall reign, and reign alone,
My Dark Rosaleen!

Over dews, over sands,
Will I fly for your weal:
Your holy delicate white hands
Shall girdle me with steel.
At home in your emerald bowers,
From morning's dawn till e'en,
You'll pray for me, my flower of flowers,
My Dark Rosaleen!
My fond Rosaleen!
You'll think of me thro' daylight hours,
My virgin flower, my flower of flowers,
My Dark Rosaleen!

I could scale the blue air,
I could plough the high hills,
O I could kneel all night in prayer,
To heal your many ills!
And one beamy smile from you
Would float like light between
My toils and me, my own, my true,
My Dark Rosaleen!
My fond Rosaleen!
Would give me life and soul anew,
A second life, a soul anew,
My Dark Rosaleen!

O the Erne shall run red
With redundance of blood,
The earth shall rock beneath our tread,
And flames wrap hill and wood,
And gun-peal and slogan-cry
Wake many a glen serene,

Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die,
My Dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
The Judgment Hour must first be nigh,
Ere you can fade, ere you can die,
My Dark Rosaleen!

James Clarence Mangan.

---

[THE FAIR HILLS OF EIRE]

Donnchad Ruadh MacNamara, about 1730.

Take my heart's blessing over to dear Eire's strand—
Fair Hills of Eire O!
To the Remnant that love her—our Forefathers' land!
Fair Hills of Eire O!
How sweet sing the birds, o'er mount there and vale,
Like soft sounding chords, that lament for the Gael,—
And I, o'er the surge, far, far away must wail
The Fair Hills of Eire O!

How fair are the flow'rs on the dear daring peaks,
Fair Hills of Eire O!
Far o'er foreign bowers I love her barest reeks,
Fair Hills of Eire O!
Triumphant her trees, that rise on ev'ry height,
Bloom-kissed, the breeze comes odorous and bright,
The love of my heart!—O my very soul's delight!
The Fair Hills of Eire O!

Still numerous and noble her sons who survive,
Fair Hills of Eire O!
The true hearts in trouble, the strong hands to strive—
Fair Hills of Eire O!
Ah, 'tis this makes my grief, my wounding and my woe,

To think that each chief is now a vassal low,
And my Country divided amongst the Foreign Foe—
The Fair Hills of Eire O!

In purple they gleam, like our High Kings of yore,
The Fair Hills of Eire O!
With honey and cream are her plains flowing o'er,
Fair Hills of Eire O!
Once more I will come, or my very life shall fail,
To the heart-haunted home of the ever-faithful Gael,
Than King's boon more welcome the swift swelling sail
For the Fair Hills of Eire O!

The dewdrops sparkle, like diamonds on the corn,
Fair Hills of Eire O!
Where green boughs darkle the bright apples burn
Fair Hills of Eire O!
Behold, in the valley, cress and berries bland,
Where streams love to dally, in that Wondrous Land,
Where the great River-voices roll in music grand
Round the Fair Hills of Eire O!

O, 'tis welcoming, wide-hearted, that dear land of love!
Fair Hills of Eire O!
New life unto the martyred is the pure breeze above
The Fair Hills of Eire O!
More sweet than tune flowing o'er the chords of gold
Comes the kine's soft lowing from the mountain fold,—
O, the Splendour of the Sunshine on them all, Young and Old,
'Mid the Fair Hills of Eire O!

George Sigerson.

---

[SHULE AROON]

A Brigade Ballad

Sir Charles Gavan Duffy says that the date of this ballad is not positively known, but it appears to be early in the eighteenth century, when the flower of the Catholic youth of Ireland were drawn away to recruit the ranks of the Irish Brigade abroad. It is accompanied by an air of deep sentiment and touching simplicity.—Ballad Poetry of Ireland.

I would I were on yonder hill,
'Tis there I'd sit and cry my fill,
And every tear would turn a mill,
Is go d-teidh tu, a mhurnin, slan!
Siubhail, siubhail, siubhail, a ruin!
Siubhail go socair, agus siubhail go ciuin,
Siubhail go d-ti an doras agus eulaigh liom,
Is go d-teidh tu, a mhurnin, slan![111]

I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel,
I'll sell my only spinning-wheel,
To buy for my love a sword of steel,
Is go d-teidh tu, a mhurnin, slan!
Siubhail, siubhail, siubhail a ruin! &c.

I'll dye my petticoats, I'll dye them red,
And round the world I'll beg my bread,
Until my parents shall wish me dead,
Is go d-teidh tu, a mhurnin, slan!
Siubhail, siubhail, siubhail, a ruin! &c.

I wish, I wish, I wish in vain,
I wish I had my heart again,
And vainly think I'd not complain,
Is go d-teidh tu, a mhurnin, slan!
Siubhail, siubhail, siubhail, a ruin! &c.

But now my love has gone to France,
To try his fortune to advance;
If he e'er come back, 'tis but a chance,
Is go d-teidh tu, a mhurnin, slan!
Siubhail, siubhail, siubhail, a ruin!
Siubhail go socair, agus siubhail go ciuin,
Siubhail go d-ti an doras agus culaigh liom,
Is go d-teidh tu, a mhurnin, slan!

FOOTNOTES:

[111] Dr. Sigerson renders the chorus in English verse, as follows:—

"Come, come, come, O Love!
Quickly come to me, softly move;
Come to the door, and away we'll flee,
And safe for aye may my darling be!"

---

[LOVE'S DESPAIR]

Dermot O'Curnan, born 1740.

I am desolate,
Bereft by bitter fate;
No cure beneath the skies can save me,
No cure on sea or strand,
Nor in any human hand—
But hers, this paining wound who gave me.

I know not night from day,
Nor thrush from cuckoo gray,
Nor cloud from the sun that shines above thee—
Nor freezing cold from heat,
Nor friend—if friend I meet—
I but know—heart's love!—I love thee.

Love that my Life began,
Love, that will close life's span,
Love that grows ever by love-giving:
Love, from the first to last,
Love, till all life be passed,
Love that loves on after living!

This love I gave to thee,
For pain love has given me,

Love that can fail or falter never—
But, spite of earth above,
Guards thee, my Flower of love,
Thou marvel-maid of life for ever.

Bear all things evidence,
Thou art my very sense,
My past, my present, and my morrow!
All else on earth is crossed,
All in the world is lost—
Lost all—but the great love-gift of sorrow.

My life not life, but death;
My voice not voice—a breath;
No sleep, no quiet—thinking ever
On thy fair phantom face,
Queen eyes and royal grace,
Lost loveliness that leaves me never.

I pray thee grant but this—
From thy dear mouth one kiss,
That the pang of death-despair pass over:
Or bid make ready nigh
The place where I shall lie,
For aye, thy leal and silent lover.

George Sigerson.

---

[THE CRUISKEEN LAWN]

In exile dark and dreary,
Wandering far and weary,
With friends that never failed, I have gone,
The trusted and true-hearted,
Would God we'd never parted,
Our brothers, boys, a cruiskeen lán, lán, lán!
Our heroes in a cruiskeen lán.

Heav'n speed them over ocean,
With breeze of rapid motion,
The ships that King Charles sails upon;
With troops the frank and fearless,
To win our Freedom peerless,
Our Freedom, boys, a cruiskeen lán, lán, lán!
Our Freedom, in a cruiskeen lán!

Young men who now are sharing
The toast we raise to Erinn,
With hope that the King is coming on,
Grasp your guns and lances
For swift his host advances,
We'll toast them in a cruiskeen lán, lán, lán!
We'll toast them in a cruiskeen lán!

The tribe who would destroy all
Our rightful princes royal
Shall hence end their rule and begone;
The Gael shall live in gladness,
And banished be all sadness.
To that time, then, a cruiskeen lán, lán, lán!
That time, boys, a cruiskeen lán!
Olfameed an cruiskeen,
Sláinte gal mo vuirneen,
In motion, over ocean, slán, slán, slán!

George Sigerson.

FOOTNOTES:

[112] i.e. "Let us drink the cruiskeen ('little jug'); fair health to my darling!"

---

[EAMONN AN CHNUIC,
OR "NED OF THE HILL"]

The Outlaw's Song

"Who is that without
With voice like a sword,
That batters my bolted door?"
"I am Eamonn an Chnuic,
Cold, weary, and wet
From long walking mountains and glens."
"O dear and bright love,
What would I do for you
But cover you with a skirt of my dress.
For shots full thick
Are raining on you,
And together we may be slaughtered!"

"Long am I out
Under snow, under frost,
Without comradeship with any;
My team unyoked,
My fallow unsown,
And they lost to me entirely;
Friend I have none
(I am heavy for that)

That would harbour me late or early;
And so I must go
East over the sea,
Since 'tis there I have no kindred!"

P. H. Pearse.

---

[O DRUIMIN DONN DILISH]

"O Druimin donn dilish,[113]
True Flower of the Kine,
Say, where art thou hiding,
Sad Mother of mine?"
"I lurk in the wild wood,
No human ear hears
(Save my brave lads around me)
My fast-falling tears.

"Gone my broad lands and homesteads,
My music and wine,
No chieftains attend me
No hostings are mine.
Stale bread and cold water
The whole of my hoard,
While the warm wine flows freely
Round the enemy's board."

"Could we utter our minds
To those smart English rogues,

We would beat them as soundly
As we beat our old brogues!
We would whip them through thorns
On a damp, foggy day,
O'er the cliffs, my Donn dilish,
We would chase them away!"

FOOTNOTES:

[113] A poetic name for Ireland; druimshionn donn dileas, lit. "the beloved white-backed dun cow."

---

[DO YOU REMEMBER THAT NIGHT?]

Do you remember that night
That you and I were
At the foot of the rowan-tree,
And the night drifting snow?
Your head on my breast,
And your pipe sweetly playing?
Little thought I that night
That our love ties would loosen!

Beloved of my inmost heart,
Come some night, and soon,
When my people are at rest,
That we may talk together.
My arms shall encircle you
While I relate my sad tale,

That your soft, pleasant converse
Hath deprived me of heaven.

The fire is unraked,
The light unextinguished,
The key under the door,
Do you softly draw it.
My mother is asleep,
But I am wide awake;
My fortune in my hand,
I am ready to go with you.

Written down by O'Curry for Dr. George Petrie.

---

[THE EXILE'S SONG]

Composed by an emigrant named MacAmbrois.

Oh! were I again on my native bay,
By the curving hills that are far away,
I scarcely would wander for half a day
From the Cuckoo's Glen of a Sunday!
For, och, och, Eire, O!
Lone is the exile from Eire, O!
'Tis my heart that is heavy and weary!

O many a Christmas in Ireland,
I would race with the boys on the pleasant strand,
With my hurling-stick in my baby hand,
And but little sense to guide me!
And, och, och, Eire, O!
Sad is the exile from Eire, O!
'Tis my heart that is heavy and weary!

Lonely and drear is this foreign plain,
Where I hear but my own voice back again,
No call of the corncrake, cuckoo, or crane,
Now awakens me on a Sunday!
Then, och, och, Eire, O!
Lost is the exile from Eire, O!
'Tis my heart that is heavy and weary!

O, had I a boat and a single oar,
With the help of God I'd reach Erin's shore,
Nay, the very tide might drift me o'er,
To die at home in Erin!
Now, och, och, Eire, O!
Would I were back in Eire, O!
'Tis my heart that is heavy and weary!

---

[THE FISHERMAN'S KEEN]

Or the lamentation of O'Donoghue of Affadown ("Roaring Water"), in the west of Co. Cork, for his three sons and his son-in-law, who were drowned.

O loudly wailed the winter wind, the driving sleet fell fast,
The ocean billow wildly heaved beneath the bitter blast;
My three fair sons, ere break of day, to fish had left the shore,
The tempest came forth in its wrath—they ne'er returned more.

Cormac, 'neath whose unerring aim the wild duck fell in flight,
The plover of the lonesome hills, the curlew swift as light!
My firstborn child! the flower of youth! the dearest and the best!
O would that thou wert spared to me, though I had lost the rest!

And thou, my handsome Felix! in whose eye so dark and bright
The soul of courage and of wit looked forth in laughing light!

And Daniel, too, my fair-haired boy, the gentle and the brave,
All, all my stately sons were 'whelmed beneath the foaming wave.

Upon the shore, in wild despair, your aged father stood,
And gazed upon his Daniel's corse, too late snatched from the flood!
I saw him pale and lifeless lie, no more to see the light—
And cold, and dumb, and motionless, my heart grew at the sight!

My children, my loved children! do you view my bitter grief?
Look down upon your poor old sire, whose woe knows no relief!
The sunshine of mine eyes is gone, the comfort of my heart;
My life of life, my soul of soul, I've seen from earth depart!

What am I now? an aged man, to earth by sorrow bowed,
I weep within a stranger's home; lone, even in a crowd;
There is no sorrow like to mine, no grief like mine appears,
My once blithe Christmas is weighed down with anguish and with tears.

My sons! my sons! abandoned to the fury of the waves!
Would I could reach the two who lie in ocean's darksome caves;

'Twould bring some comfort to my heart in earth to see them laid,
And hear in Affadown the wild lamentings for them made.

O would that like the gay "Wild Geese" my sons had left this land,
From their poor father in his age, to seek a foreign strand;
Then might I hope the Lord of Heaven in mercy would restore,
My brave and good and stately sons in time to me once more!

Anonymous.

---

[BOATMAN'S HYMN]

Bark that bare me through foam and squall,
You in the storm are my castle wall:
Though the sea should redden from bottom to top,
From tiller to mast she takes no drop;
On the tide-top, the tide-top,
Wherry aroon, my land and store!
On the tide-top, the tide-top,
She is the boat can sail go leor.

She dresses herself, and goes gliding on,
Like a dame in her robes of the Indian lawn;
For God has bless'd her, gunnel and whale,
And oh! if you saw her stretch out to the gale,
On the tide-top, the tide-top, &c.

Whillan, ahoy! old heart of stone,
Stooping so black o'er the beach alone,
Answer me well—on the bursting brine
Saw you ever a bark like mine?
On the tide-top, the tide-top, &c.

Says Whillan—"Since first I was made of stone,
I have looked abroad o'er the beach alone—

But till to-day, on the bursting brine,
Saw I never a bark like thine,"
On the tide-top, the tide-top, &c.

"God of the air!" the seamen shout,
When they see us tossing the brine about:
"Give us the shelter of strand or rock,
Or through and through us she goes with a shock!"
On the tide-top, the tide-top,
Wherry aroon, my land and store!
On the tide-top, the tide-top,
She is the boat can sail go leor!

Sir Samuel Ferguson.

---

[DIRGE ON THE DEATH OF ART O'LEARY]

Shot at Carraganime, Co. Cork, May 4, 1773
By Dark Eileen, his wife.

I

II

Thou didst bring me to fair chambers,
Rooms you had adorned for me;
Ovens were reddened for me,
Fresh trout were caught for me,
Roast flesh was carved for me
From beef that was felled for me;
On beds of down I lay
Till the coming of the milking-time,
Or so long as was pleasing to me.

III

Rider of the white palm!
With the silver-hilted sword!
Well your beaver hat became you
With its band of graceful gold;
Your suit of solid homespun yarn
Wrapped close around your form;
Slender shoes of foreign fashion,
And a pin of brightest silver
Fastened in your shirt.
As you rode in stately wise
On your slender steed, white-faced,
After coming over seas,
Even the Saxons bowed before you
Bowed down to the very ground;
Not because they loved you well
But from deadly hate;
For it was by them you fell,
Darling of my soul.

IV

My friend and my little calf!
Offspring of the Lords of Antrim,
And the chiefs of Immokely!
Never had I thought you dead,
Until there came to me your mare
Her bridle dragged beside her to the ground;
Upon her brow your heart-blood splashed,
Even to the carven saddle flowing down
Where you were wont to sit or stand.
I did not stay to cleanse it—
I gave a quick leap with my hands
Upon the wooden stretcher of the bed;
A second leap was to the gate,
And the third leap upon thy mare.

V

In haste I clapped my hands together,
I followed on your tracks
As well as I could,
Till I found you laid before me dead
At the foot of a lowly bush of furze;
Without pope, without bishop,
Without cleric or priest
To read a psalm for thee;
But only an old bent wasted crone
Who flung over thee the corner of her cloak.

VI

My dear and beloved one!
When it will come to me to reach our home,
Little Conor, of our love,
And Fiac, his toddling baby-brother,
Will be asking of me quickly
Where I left their dearest father?
I shall answer them with sorrow
That I left him in Kill Martyr;
They will call upon their father;
He will not be there to answer.

VII

My love and my chosen one!
When you were going forward from the gate,
You turned quickly back again!
You kissed your two children,
You threw a kiss to me.
You said, "Eileen, arise now, be stirring,
And set your house in order,
Be swiftly moving.
I am leaving our home,
It is likely that I may not come again."
I took it only for a jest
You used often to be jesting thus before.

VIII

My friend and my heart's love!
Arise up, my Art,
Leap on thy steed,
Arise out to Macroom
And to Inchegeela after that;
A bottle of wine in thy grasp,
As was ever in the time of thy ancestors.
Arise up, my Art,
Rider of the shining sword;
Put on your garments,
Your fair noble clothes;
Don your black beaver,
Draw on your gloves;
See, here hangs your whip,
Your good mare waits without;
Strike eastward on the narrow road,
For the bushes will bare themselves before you,
For the streams will narrow on your path,
For men and women will bow themselves before you
If their own good manners are upon them yet,
But I am much a-feared they are not now.

IX

Destruction to you and woe,
O Morris, hideous the treachery
That took from me the man of the house,
The father of my babes;
Two of them running about the house,
The third beneath my breast,
It is likely that I shall not give it birth.

X

My long wound, my bitter sorrow,
That I was not beside thee
When the shot was fired;
That I might have got it in my soft body
Or in the skirt of my gown;
Till I would give you freedom to escape,
O Rider of the grey eye,
Because it is you would best have followed after them.

XI

My dear and my heart's love!
Terrible to me the way I see thee,
To be putting our hero,
Our rider so true of heart,
In a little cap in a coffin!
Thou who used to be fishing along the streams,
Thou who didst drink within wide halls
Among the gentle women white of breast;
It is my thousand afflictions
That I have lost your companionship!
My love and my darling,
Could my shouts but reach thee
West in mighty Derrynane,
And in Carhen of the yellow apples after that;
Many a light-hearted young horseman,
And woman with white spotless kerchief
Would swiftly be with us here,
To wail above thy head
Art O'Leary of the joyous laugh!
O women of the soft wet eyes,
Stay now your weeping,
Till Art O'Leary drinks his drink
Before his going back to school;
Not to learn reading or music does he go there now,
But to carry clay and stones.

XII

My love and my secret thou.
Thy corn-stacks are piled,
And thy golden kine are milking,
But it is upon my own heart is the grief!
There is no healing in the Province of Munster,
Nor in the Island smithy of the Fians,
Till Art O'Leary will come back to me;
But all as if it were a lock upon a trunk
And the key of it gone straying;
Or till rust will come upon the screw.

XIII

My friend and my best one!
Art O'Leary, son of Conor,
Son of Cadach, son of Lewis,
Eastward from wet wooded glens,
Westward from the slender hill
Where the rowan-berries grow,
And the yellow nuts are ripe upon the branches;
Apples trailing, as it was in my day.
Little wonder to myself
If fires were lighted in O'Leary's country,
And at the mouth of Ballingeary,
Or at holy Gougane Barra of the cells,
After the rider of the smooth grip,
After the huntsman unwearied
When, heavy breathing with the chase,
Even thy lithe deerhounds lagged behind.
O horseman of the enticing eyes,
What happened thee last night?
For I myself thought
That the whole world could not kill you
When I bought for you that shirt of mail.

XIV

My friend and my darling!
A cloudy vision through the darkness
Came to me last night,
At Cork lately
And I alone upon my bed!
I saw the wood glen withered,
I saw our lime-washed court fallen;
No sound of speech came from thy hunting-dogs
Nor sound of singing from the birds
When you were found fallen
On the side of the hill without;
When you were found in the clay,
Art O'Leary;
With your drop of blood oozing out
Through the breast of your shirt.

XV

It is known to Jesus Christ,
I will put no cap upon my head,
Nor body-linen on my side,
Nor shoes upon my feet,
Nor gear throughout the house;
Even on the brown mare will be no bridle,
But I shall spend all in taking the law.
I will go across the seas
To speak with the king;
But if they will give no heed to me,
It is I that will come back again
To seek the villain of the black blood
Who cut off my treasure from me.
O Morrison, who killed my hero,
Was there not one man in Erin
Would put a bullet through you?

XVI

The affection of this heart to you,
O white women of the mill,
For the edged poetry that you have shed
Over the horseman of the brown mare.
It is I who am the lonely one
In Inse Carriganane.

---

[THE MIDNIGHT COURT]

Prologue
Brian Merriman, died in Limerick, 1808.

Full often I strolled by the brink of the river,
On the greensward soaked by the heavy dew,
Skirting the woods in the bays of the mountains,
No care in my heart, while the day was new.

My soul would light up when I saw Loch Gréine
Lie blue on the breast of the landscape green,
The heaven's expanse o'er the ring of the mountains,
Peak beckoning to peak o'er the ridges between.

Ah, well might the weakling, the sport of misfortune,
Spent of his vigour, embittered with pain,
His birthright wasted, his pockets empty,
Gaze long on that scene and take heart again.

On its mistless bosom the wild duck settled,
Two followed by two rode the stately swan,
In wanton gladness the perch leaped upward,
Ruddy their scales when the bright sun shone!

Peaceful the scene, as the azure waters
In ripples swept circling in to the shore;
Strange is its change in the winter quarter,
Its thunderous crash, its hollow roar.

Bright birds in the trees make a melody mirthful,
The doe bounds down, the hunt flashes by,
I hear the shrill horns, they are close upon me!
Brave Reynard in front, and the hounds in full cry!

---

RELIGIOUS POEMS OF THE PEOPLE

---

[HYMN TO THE VIRGIN MARY]

Conor O'Riordan, about 1750.

She of the King of Stars beloved, stainless, undefiled,
Christ chose as His Mother-nurse, to Him, the stainless Child;
Within her breast, as in a nest, the Paraclete reposes,
Lily among fairest flowers, Rose amid red roses.

She, the bright unsheathèd sword to guard our souls in anguish,
She, the flawless limber-branch, to cover those that languish;
Where her healing mantle flows, may I find my hiding,
'Neath the fringes of her robe constantly abiding.

Hostile camps upon the plain, sharp swords clashed together,
Stricken fleets across the main stressed by wintry weather;
Weary sickness on my heart, sinful thoughts alluring,
All the fever of my soul clings to her for curing.

She the Maid the careful king of the wide wet world chooses,
In her speech forgiveness lies, no suppliant she refuses;
White Star of our troubled sea, on thy name I'm crying,
That Christ may draw in His spread net the living and the dying.

---

[CHRISTMAS HYMN]

Hail to thee, thou holy Babe,
In the manger now so poor,
Yet so rich Thou art, I ween,
High within the highest door.

Little Babe who art so great,
Child so young who art so old,
In the manger small His room
Whom not heaven itself could hold.

Motherless, with mother here,
Fatherless, a tiny span,
Ever God in heaven's height,
First to-night becoming man.

Father—not more old than thou?
Mother—younger, can it be!
Older, younger is the Son,
Younger, older, she than He.

Douglas Hyde

---

[O MARY OF GRACES]

O Mary of Graces
And Mother of God,
May I tread in the paths
That the righteous have trod.

And mayest thou save me
From evil's control,
And mayest thou save me
In body and soul.

And mayest thou save me
By land and by sea,
And mayest thou save me
From tortures to be.

May the guard of the angels
Above me abide,
May God be before me
And God at my side.

Douglas Hyde.

---

[THE CATTLE-SHED]

O Trinity of the glorious saints, I marvel
that the White Prince of the Kingdom did descend
as a child into the pure womb of Mary.
Nine months the Master of the Angels stayed
in humility and in great lowliness with her,
lighting a furnace of love within her.
He came down to earth,
the White Lamb, our loosener from sin.
O Mother, who found not a dwelling in the city,
till thou didst come to the stable to seek a bed;
there wast thou lying in poverty,
without wine, without flesh, or one taste in thy mouth;
on the mean barley chaff in the cattle-shed,
she brought forth the only Son of God of the Apostles.
Cold and misery you complained not of as your portion,
and was it not the holy sight in the manger of the ass?

---

[HAIL TO THEE, O MARY]

Hail to thee, O Mary,
Full of holy graces,
Thou our loving Mother
Whom the child embraces.
Hail to thee, O Mary,
Where are our alarms?
Is the little Child not blessed,
Lying in thine arms?

---

[TWO PRAYERS]

A low prayer, a high prayer, I send through space.
Arrange them Thyself, O Thou King of Grace.

---

[O MARY, O BLESSED MOTHER]

O Mary, O blessed Mother,
praise from my heart I sing,
it is thou didst bear our Saviour,
our Lord and our King.
In the stable of Bethlehem's city,
at the hour of middle-night,
was not sweet the brave song of the angels
for the King who was born that night?

O King of Kings, a thousand glories to Thee,
it is Thou who didst bear the cross
out to Calvary's hill,
and Thou wounded in every spot.
We will take courage from the pouring of the blood,
and we will follow our Saviour,
our Lord and our King,
to the city of Glory,
along with the throng,
Saints, Apostles, and Angels,
to the dwelling of God's Son.

---

[I REST WITH THEE, O JESUS]

I rest with Thee, O Jesus,
And do Thou rest with me.
The oil of Christ on my poor soul,
The creed of the Twelve to make me whole,
Above my head I see.
O Father, who created me,
O Son, who purchased me,
O Spirit Blest, who blessest me,
Rest ye with me.

---

[THANKSGIVING AFTER FOOD]

Great Giver of the open hand,
We stand to thank Thee for our meat,
A hundred praises, Christ, 'tis meet,
For all we drink, for all we eat.

---

[THE SACRED TRINITY]

Three folds of the cloth, yet one only napkin is there,
Three joints in the finger, but still only one finger fair;
Three leaves of the shamrock, yet no more than one shamrock to wear.
Frost, snow-flakes and ice, all in water their origin share,
Three Persons in God; to one God alone we make prayer.

---

[O KING OF THE WOUNDS]

O King of the Wounds! who found death on the top of the tree,
By the hand of the blind was Thy heart's blood riven from Thee;
By the blood from Thy wounds flowing down in a pool on the field,
O bear us to Paradise, Thou, 'neath the shade of Thy shield.

---

[PRAYER BEFORE GOING TO SLEEP]

The cross of the angels
On the bed where I lie;
The robe of the kingdom,
May it come very nigh;
O Glorious Virgin,
My thousand loves thou,
My helpful supporter,
My affection thou.
My woman-physician,
Ill or well, thou,
My firm faithful helper
In the Kingdom of graces, thou.
O gentle Jesus,
O Jesus, most gentle,
O Jesus Christ, have mercy upon us;
O glorious Virgin, pray thou also for us;
O Mother of God, O Bright Star of Knowledge,
O Queen of Paradise, watch thou and ward us,
The light of glory obtain from thy Child for us,
A sight of thy house, by thy great power's might, for us
The Light of all lights, and a sight of the Trinity,
And the grace of long patience in days of adversity.

---

[I LIE DOWN WITH GOD]

I lie down with God, and may God lie down with me;
The right hand of God under my head,
The two hands of Mary round about me,
The cross of the nine white angels,
From the back of my head
To the sole of my feet.
May I not lie with evil,
And may evil not lie with me.
Anna, mother of Mary,
Mary, mother of Christ,
Elizabeth, mother of John Baptist,
I myself beseech these three
To keep the couch free from sickness.
The tree on which Christ suffered
Be between me and the heavy-lying (nightmare),
And any other thing that seeks my harm.
With the will of God and the aid of the glorious Virgin.

---

[THE WHITE PATERNOSTER]

On going to sleep, think that it is the sleep of death, and that you may be summoned to the Day of the Mountain (i.e. the Day of Judgment), and say:—

I myself lie down with God,
May God lie down with me!
The protection of God above my head,
And the cross of the angels beneath my body.
Where wilt thou lie down to-night?
Between Mary and her Son,
Between Brigit and her mantle,
Between Columcille and his shield,
Between God and His right hand.
Where wilt thou arise on the morrow?
I will arise with Patrick.
Who are they in front of us?
Two hundred angels.
Who are they behind us?
As many again of the people of God.
Shut the forts of hell,
And open the gates of the kingdom of God.
Let the mighty radiance out,
And lead the sorrowful soul within.
O God, have mercy upon us!
O Son of the Virgin, may our souls be found by thee!

Glory to the Father, glory to the Son, glory to the Holy Ghost of power; as it was in the beginning, so it is now, and shall be for ages of ages. Glory to thee, O Lord.

---