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.