This tale is by Gilliecallum M’ an Olave. [113]
I have heard a tale of old, A tale that should make us weep; ’Tis time to relate it sadly, Although it should fill us with grief. Rury’s[114] race of no soft grasp, Children of Connor and Connal; Bravely their youth did take the field, In Ulster’s noble province. None with joy returned home Of Banva’s proudest heroes. For as they once more tried the fight, Rury’s race did win the day. There came to us, fierce his mien, The dauntless warrior, Conlach, To learn of our beauteous land, From Dunscaich[115] to Erin. Connor spoke thus to his men, “Who’s prepared to meet the youth, And of him to take account; Who will take no refusal?” Then the strong-armed Connal went, Of the youth to take account; The end of their fight was this, Conlach had bound Connal. Yet the hero did not halt, Conlach, brave and vigorous, He bound a hundred of our men, It is a strange and mournful tale. To the hounds’ great chief[116] a message Was sent by Ulster’s wise king, To sunny, fair Dundalgin,[117] The old, wise fort of the Gael, That stronghold of which we read, And the prudent daughter of Forgan.[118] From thence came he of great deeds To see our generous king; To know of Ulster’s great race, There came to us the red branch[119] Cu, His teeth like pearl, cheeks like berries. “Long,” said Connor to the Cu, “Has been thine aid in coming, While Connal, who loves bold steeds, Is bound and a hundred more.” “Sad for me to be thus bound, Friend, who could’st soon unloose me.” “I couldn’t encounter his sword, And that he has bound brave Connal.” “Refuse not to attack him, Prince of the sharp, blue sword, Whose arm ne’er quailed in conflict, Think of thy patron now in bonds.” When Cuchullin of the thin-leaved sword Heard the lament of Connal, He moved in his arm’s great might To take of the youth account. “Tell us now that I have come, Youth who fearest not the fight, Tell us now, and tell at once, Thy name, and where’s thy country?” “Ere I left home I had to pledge That I should never that relate; Were I to tell to living man, For thy love’s sake I’d tell it thee.” “Then must thou with me battle do, Or tell thy tale as a friend. Choose for thyself, dear youth, But mind, to fight me is a risk. Let us not fight, I pray thee, Brave leopard, pride of Erin, Boldest in the battle field, My name I would tell unbought.” Then did they commence the fight, Nor was it the fight of women. The youth received a deadly wound, He of the vigorous arm. Yet did Cuchullin of battles, The victory on that day lose. His only son had fallen, slain, That fair, soft branch, so gentle, brave. “Tell us now,” said skilful Cu, “Since thou art at our mercy, Thy name and race, tell us in full, Think not to refuse thy tale.” “Conlach I, Cuchullin’s son, Lawful heir of great Dundalgin, It was I thou left’st unborn, When in Skiath[120] thou wast learning. Seven years in the east I spent, Gaining knowledge from my mother; The pass by which I have been slain Was all I needed still to learn.” Then does the great Cuchullin see[121] His dear son’s colour change; As of his generous heart he thinks, His memory and mind forsake him; His body’s excellency departs, His grief it was destroyed it; Seeing as he lay on the earth The rightful heir of Dundalgin; Where shall we find his like, Or how detail our grief? I have.
The author of this is the Blind O’Cloan. [122]
’Tis the sigh of a friend from Fraoch’s green mound, ’Tis the warrior’s sigh from his lonely bier,[123] ’Tis a sigh might grieve the manly heart, And might make a maid to weep. Here to the east the cairn, where lies Fraoch Fitheach’s son of softest locks, Who nobly strove to favour Mai, And from whom Cairn[124] Fraoch is named. In Cruachan east a woman weeps, A mournful tale ’tis she laments; Heavy, heavy sighs she gives For Fraoch mac Fithich of ancient fame. She ’tis, in truth, who sorely weeps, As Fraoch’s green mound she visits oft; Maid of the locks that wave so fair, Mai’s daughter so beloved of men. This night Orla’s soft-haired daughter, Lies side by side with Fraoch mac Fithich. Many were the men who loved her, She, of them all, loved Fraoch alone. Mai is filled with bitter hate, As the love of Fraoch she learns. His body got its grievous wounds, Because with her he’d do no wrong; She doomed him to a bitter death: Judge not of women by her deed, Grief ’twas that he should fall by Mai, Yet I’ll relate it without guile. A sigh.[125]
A rowan tree stood in Loch Mai, We see its shore there to the south; Every quarter every month, It bore its fair, well-ripened fruit; There stood the tree alone, erect, Its fruit than honey sweeter far; That precious fruit so richly red, Did suffice for a man’s nine meals; A year it added to man’s life,— The tale I tell is very truth. Health to the wounded it could bring, Such virtue had its red-skinned fruit. One thing alone was to be feared By him who sought men’s ills to soothe: A monster[126] fierce lay at its root, Which they who sought its fruit must fight. A heavy, heavy sickness fell On Athach’s daughter, of liberal horn; Her messenger she sent for Fraoch, Who asked her what ’twas ailed her now. Mai said her health would ne’er return, Unless her fair soft palm was filled With berries from the deep cold lake, Gleaned by the hand of none but Fraoch. “Ne’er have I yet request refused,” Said Fithich’s son of ruddy hue; “Whate’er the lot of Fraoch may be, The berries I will pull for Mai.” The fair-formed Fraoch then moved away Down to the lake, prepared to swim. He found the monster in deep sleep, With head up-pointed to the tree. A sigh.
Fraoch Fithich’s son of pointed arms, Unheard by the monster, then approached. He plucked a bunch of red-skinned fruit, And brought it to where Mai did lie. “Though what thou did’st thou hast done well,” Said Mai, she of form so fair, “My purpose nought, brave man, wilt serve, But that from the root thou’dst tear the tree.” No bolder heart there was than Fraoch’s, Again the slimy lake he swam; Yet great as was his strength, he couldn’t Escape the death for him ordained. Firm by its top he seized the tree, And from the root did tear it up: With speed again he makes for land, But not before the beast awakes. Fast he pursues, and, as he swam, Seized in his horrid maw his arm. Fraoch by the jaw then grasped the brute, ’Twas sad for him to want his knife: The maid of softest waving hair, In haste brought him a knife of gold. The monster tore his soft white skin, And hacked most grievously his arm. Then fell they, sole to sole opposed, Down on the southern stony strand, Fraoch mac Fithich, he and the beast, ’Twere well that they had never fought.[127] Fierce was the conflict, yet ’twas long,— The monster’s head at length he took. When the maid what happened saw, Upon the strand she fainting fell. Then from her trance when she awoke, In her soft hand she seized his hand: “Although for wild birds thou art food, Thy last exploit was nobly done.” ’Tis from that death which he met then, The name is given to Loch Mai; That name it will for ever bear, Men have called it so till now. A sigh.
They bear along to Fraoch’s green mound The hero’s body to its grave. By his name they call the glen, Sad for those he left behind. Cairn Laive is the hill beside me, Close by it many a happy day The hero lived, of matchless strength, The bravest heart in battle’s day. Lovely those lips with welcomes rich, Which woman liked so well to kiss; Lovely the chief whom men obeyed, Lovely those cheeks like roses red, Than raven’s hue more dark his hair, Redder than hero’s blood his cheeks; Softer than froth of streams his skin, Whiter it was than whitest snow; His hair in curling locks fell down, His eye more blue than bluest ice; Than rowans red more red his lips, Whiter than blossoms were his teeth; Tall was his spear like any mast, Sweeter his voice than sounding chord; None could better swim than Fraoch, Who ever breasted running stream. Broader than any gate his shield, Joyous he swung it o’er his back; His arm and sword of equal length, In size he like a ship did look. Would it had been in warrior’s fight That Fraoch, who spared not gold, had died; ’Twas sad to perish by a Beast, ’Tis just as sad he lives not now. ’Tis the sigh.
The author of this is Connal Cearnach M’Edirskeol. [128]
These heads, O Connal, are worthless; Though thou must have blooded thine arms. These heads thou bear’st upon that withe, Can’st tell their owners, now thy spoil?
Daughter of Orgill of the steeds, Youthful Evir, so sweet of speech, ’Twas to avenge Cuchullin’s death, That I took these numerous heads.