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diff --git a/32030.txt b/32030.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..70c9de7 --- /dev/null +++ b/32030.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3884 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Ancient Irish Poetry, by Various + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Ancient Irish Poetry + +Author: Various + +Translator: Kuno Meyer + +Release Date: April 17, 2010 [EBook #32030] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANCIENT IRISH POETRY *** + + + + +Produced by Bethanne M. Simms, Christine D. and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + SELECTIONS FROM + ANCIENT IRISH POETRY + + + + Selections from + Ancient Irish Poetry + + + TRANSLATED BY + + KUNO MEYER + + + LONDON + CONSTABLE & COMPANY LTD + 10 ORANGE STREET LEICESTER SQUARE W.C. + 1911 + + + + + TO + EDMUND KNOWLES MUSPRATT + THE ENLIGHTENED AND GENEROUS PATRON + OF CELTIC STUDIES + IN THE UNIVERSITY OF LIVERPOOL + A SMALL TOKEN + OF AFFECTIONATE REGARD AND GRATITUDE + + + + +INTRODUCTION + + +In offering this collection of translations from early Irish poetry to a +wider public I feel that I am expected to give a brief account of the +literature from which they are taken--a literature so little known that +its very existence has been doubted or denied by some, while others, who +had the misfortune to make its acquaintance in ill-chosen or inadequate +renderings, have refused to recognise any merit in it. The bias and +ignorance of English historians and of many professed students of Irish +history, who continue to write without a first-hand knowledge of its +sources, have also reacted unfavourably upon the study of Irish +literature. Slowly, however, the fact is becoming recognised in ever wider +circles that the vernacular literature of ancient Ireland is the most +primitive and original among the literatures of Western Europe, and that +in its origins and development it affords a most fascinating study. +Whatever may be its intrinsic merit, its importance as the earliest voice +from the dawn of West European civilisation cannot be denied. + +Time and again in the course of their history the nations of Western and +Northern Europe have had to struggle hard for the preservation of their +national life against a powerful denationalising influence proceeding from +Rome. Those among them who underwent the Roman conquest lost early, +together with their liberty, their most precious national possession, +their native language and with it their vernacular literature. Less than a +century after the slaughter of Vercingetorix Romanised Gauls were +carrying off the palm of Roman eloquence. By the fifth century the Gaulish +language was everywhere extinct, without having left behind a single +record of its literature. The same fate was shared by all Celtic +nationalities of the Continent, and by those numerous Germanic tribes that +were conquered by Rome, or came within the sphere of the later Roman +civilisation. In Britain, where the Roman occupation was only temporary, +its denationalising effect may be gauged by the numerous Latin loan-words +preserved to the present day in the Welsh language, by the partial +Romanisation of British personal proper names, by the early inscribed +stones, which, unlike those of Ireland, are all in Latin, and by the late +and slow beginnings of a literature in the vernacular. + +It was only on the outskirts of the Continental world, and beyond the sway +and influence of the Roman Empire, that some vigorous nations preserved +their national institutions intact, and among them there are only three +whom letters reached early enough to leave behind some record of their +pagan civilisation in a vernacular literature. These were the Irish, the +Anglo-Saxons, and, comparative latecomers, the Icelanders. + +Again, when Christianity came with the authority of Rome and in the Latin +language, now imbued with an additional sanctity, there ensued in all +nations a struggle between the vernacular and the foreign tongue for +obtaining the rank of a literary language--a struggle from which the +languages of the Continental nations, as well as of Britain, emerged only +slowly and late. It is not till the end of the eleventh century that we +find the beginnings of a national literature in France and Germany. In +Ireland, on the other hand, which had received her Christianity not direct +from Rome but from Britain and Gaul, and where the Church, far removed +from the centre of Roman influence and cut off from the rest of +Christendom, was developing on national lines, vernacular literature +received a fresh impulse from the new faith. A flourishing primitive +Christian literature arose. The national language was employed not only +for the purposes of instruction and devotion, in tombstone or other +inscriptions, but also in religious prose and poetry, and, still more +remarkable, in learned writings. There can, I think, be little doubt that +we should hardly have any early records of Anglo-Saxon literature if the +English had not in the first instance received Christianity from the +Irish. It had been the influence and example of those Irish missionaries +who converted Northumberland that taught the Anglian monk to preserve and +cultivate his national literature. + +Ireland had become the heiress of the classical and theological learning +of the Western Empire of the third and fourth centuries, and a period of +humanism was thus ushered in which reached its culmination during the +sixth and following centuries, the Golden Age of Irish civilisation. The +charge that is so often levelled against Irish history, that it has been, +as it were, in a backwater, where only the fainter wash of the larger +currents reaches, cannot apply to this period. For once, at any rate, +Ireland drew upon herself the eyes of the whole world, not, as so often +in later times, by her unparalleled sufferings, but as the one haven of +rest in a turbulent world overrun by hordes of barbarians, as the great +seminary of Christian and classical learning, 'the quiet habitation of +sanctity and literature,' as Doctor Johnson called her in a memorable +letter written to Charles O'Connor. Her sons, carrying Christianity and a +new humanism over Great Britain and the Continent, became the teachers of +whole nations, the counsellors of kings and emperors. For once, if but for +a century or two, the Celtic spirit dominated a large part of the Western +world, and Celtic ideals imparted a new life to a decadent civilisation +until they succumbed, not altogether to the benefit of mankind, before a +mightier system--that of Rome. + +It was during this period that the oral literature, handed down by many +generations of bards and story-tellers, was first written down in the +monasteries. Unfortunately, not a single tale, only two or three poems, +have come down to us from these early centuries in contemporary +manuscripts. In Ireland nearly all old MSS. were destroyed during the +Viking terror which burst upon the island at the end of the eighth +century.[1] But, from the eleventh century onward, we have an almost +unbroken series of hundreds of MSS. in which all that had escaped +destruction was collected and arranged. Many of the tales and poems thus +preserved were undoubtedly originally composed in the eighth century; some +few perhaps in the seventh; and as Irish scholarship advances, it is not +unlikely that fragments of poetry will be found which, from linguistic or +internal evidence, may be claimed for the sixth century. + +The Celtic nations stand almost alone in this, that they did not employ +poetry for epical narrative. There are no ancient Irish epics or ballads. +So much was prose the natural vehicle of expression for Gaelic narrative, +that when in later centuries the Arthurian epics were done into Gaelic, +they were all turned from poetry into prose. At the same time, most Irish +tales and stories are interspersed with lyrics put into the mouth of the +principal heroes, after the manner of the _cante fable_, most familiar to +modern readers from the French story of _Aucassin et Nicolete_. My +collection begins with a few specimens of such poems. + +The purely lyrical poetry of ancient Ireland may be roughly divided into +two sections--that of the professional bard attached to the court and +person of a chief; and that of the unattached poet, whether monk or +itinerant bard. + +From the earliest times we know the names of many famous bards of ancient +Ireland and Scotland. Their songs are interwoven with the history of the +dynasties and the great houses of the country whose retainers they were, +and whose joys and sorrows they shared and expressed. Thus they became the +chroniclers of many historical events. Of the oldest bardic poetry very +little has as yet been published, and less translated. But many fine +examples of a later age will be found in Standish Hayes O'Grady's +_Catalogue of Irish Manuscripts in the British Museum_, a book which +makes one realise more clearly than any other that the true history of +Ireland has never yet been written. My own specimens from the earlier +centuries include several laments and a sword-song, a species of bardic +composition which the Gaels share with the Norse. + +Religious poetry ranges from single quatrains to lengthy compositions +dealing with all the varied aspects of religious life. Many of them give +us a fascinating insight into the peculiar character of the early Irish +Church, which differed in so many ways from the rest of the Christian +world. We see the hermit in his lonely cell, the monk at his devotions or +at his work of copying in the scriptorium or under the open sky; or we +hear the ascetic who, alone or with twelve chosen companions, has left one +of the great monasteries in order to live in greater solitude among the +woods or mountains, or on a lonely island. The fact that so many of these +poems are fathered upon well-known saints emphasises the friendly attitude +of the native clergy towards vernacular poetry. + +In Nature poetry the Gaelic muse may vie with that of any other nation. +Indeed, these poems occupy a unique position in the literature of the +world. To seek out and watch and love Nature, in its tiniest phenomena as +in its grandest, was given to no people so early and so fully as to the +Celt. Many hundreds of Gaelic and Welsh poems testify to this fact.[2] It +is a characteristic of these poems that in none of them do we get an +elaborate or sustained description of any scene or scenery, but rather a +succession of pictures and images which the poet, like an impressionist, +calls up before us by light and skilful touches. Like the Japanese, the +Celts were always quick to take an artistic hint; they avoid the obvious +and the commonplace; the half-said thing to them is dearest. + +Of ancient love-songs comparatively little has come down to us. What we +have are mostly laments for departed lovers. He who would have further +examples of Gaelic love-poetry must turn to modern collections, among +which the _Love-Songs of Connaught_, collected and translated by Douglas +Hyde, occupy the foremost place. + +A word on the metrical system of Irish poetry may conclude this rapid +sketch. The original type from which the great variety of Irish metres has +sprung is the catalectic trochaic tetrameter of Latin poetry, as in the +well-known popular song of Caesar's soldiers:-- + + 'Caesar Gallias subegit, Nicomedes Caesarem, + Ecce Caesar nunc triumphat qui subegit Gallias'; + +or in St. Hilary's _Hymnus in laudem Christi_, beginning:-- + + 'Ymnum dicat turba fratrum, ymnum cantus personet, + Christo regi concinentes laudem demus debitam.' + +The commonest stanza is a quatrain consisting of four heptasyllabic lines +with the rhyme at the end of the couplet. In my renderings I have made no +attempt at either rhythm or rhyme; but I have printed the stanzas so as +to show the structure of the poem. For merely practical reasons I have, in +some cases, printed them in the form of couplets, in others in that of +verse-lines. + +I must not conclude without recording here also, as I have done elsewhere, +my gratitude for the constant help and advice given to me in these +translations by my old friend and colleague, Professor J.M. Mackay. + + K.M. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 1: The poems referred to have been preserved in Continental +manuscripts.] + +[Footnote 2: See the admirable paper by Professor Lewis Jones on 'The Celt +and the Poetry of Nature,' in the _Transactions of the Hon. Society of +Cymmrodorion_, Session 1892-93, p. 46 ff.] + + + + +CONTENTS + + + MYTH AND SAGA-- + PAGE + THE ISLES OF THE HAPPY 3 + + THE SEA-GOD'S ADDRESS TO BRAN 7 + + THE TRYST AFTER DEATH 9 + + DEIRDRE'S FAREWELL TO SCOTLAND 15 + + DEIRDRE'S LAMENT 17 + + THE HOSTS OF FAERY 19 + + FROM THE VISION OF MAC CONGLINNE 20 + + + RELIGIOUS POETRY-- + + THE DEER'S CRY 25 + + AN EVEN-SONG 28 + + PATRICK'S BLESSING ON MUNSTER 29 + + THE HERMIT'S SONG 30 + + A PRAYER TO THE VIRGIN 32 + + EVE'S LAMENT 34 + + ON THE FLIGHTINESS OF THOUGHT 35 + + TO CRINOG 37 + + THE DEVIL'S TRIBUTE TO MOLING 39 + + MAELISU'S HYMN TO THE ARCHANGEL MICHAEL 41 + + THE MOTHERS' LAMENT AT THE SLAUGHTER OF THE INNOCENTS 42 + + + SONGS OF NATURE-- + + KING AND HERMIT 47 + + SONG OF THE SEA 51 + + SUMMER HAS COME 53 + + SONG OF SUMMER 54 + + SUMMER IS GONE 56 + + A SONG OF WINTER 57 + + ARRAN 59 + + LOVE POETRY-- + + THE SONG OF CREDE, DAUGHTER OF GUARE 63 + + LIADIN AND CURITHIR 65 + + + BARDIC POETRY-- + + A DIRGE FOR KING NIALL OF THE NINE HOSTAGES 69 + + THE SONG OF CARROLL'S SWORD 72 + + EOCHAID'S LAMENT 75 + + LAMENT ON KING MALACHY II. 77 + + + MISCELLANEOUS-- + + THE MONK AND HIS PET CAT 81 + + COLUM CILLE'S GREETING TO IRELAND 83 + + ON ANGUS THE CULDEE 86 + + COLUM CILLE THE SCRIBE 87 + + THE LAMENT OF THE OLD WOMAN OF BEARE 88 + + THE DESERTED HOME 92 + + CORMAC MAC CULENNAIN SANG THIS 94 + + ALEXANDER THE GREAT 95 + + + QUATRAINS-- + + THE SCRIBE 99 + + ON A DEAD SCHOLAR 99 + + THE CRUCIFIXION 99 + + THE PILGRIM AT ROME 100 + + HOSPITALITY 100 + + THE BLACKBIRD 100 + + MOLING SANG THIS 100 + + THE CHURCH BELL IN THE NIGHT 101 + + THE VIKING TERROR 101 + + + FROM THE TRIADS OF IRELAND 102 + + + FROM THE INSTRUCTIONS OF KING CORMAC 105 + + + NOTES 111 + + + + +MYTH AND SAGA + + + + +THE ISLES OF THE HAPPY + + + Once when Bran, son of Feval, was with his warriors in his + royal fort, they suddenly saw a woman in strange raiment + upon the floor of the house. No one knew whence she had come + or how she had entered, for the ramparts were closed. Then + she sang these quatrains to Bran while all the host were + listening. + + I bring a branch of Evin's[3] apple-tree, + In shape alike to those you know: + Twigs of white silver are upon it, + Buds of crystal with blossoms. + + There is a distant isle, + Around which sea-horses glisten: + A fair course against the white-swelling surge-- + Four pedestals uphold it. + + A delight of the eyes, a glorious range + Is the plain on which the hosts hold games: + Coracle contends against chariot + In Silver-white Plain[3] to the south. + + Pedestals of white bronze underneath + Glittering through ages of beauty: + Fairest land throughout the world, + On which the many blossoms drop. + + An ancient tree there is in bloom, + On which birds call to the Hours: + In harmony of song they all are wont + To chant together every Hour. + + Colours of every shade glisten + Throughout the gentle-voiced plains: + Joy is known, ranked around music, + In Silver-cloud Plain[3] to the south. + + Unknown is wailing or treachery + In the homely cultivated land: + There is nothing rough or harsh, + But sweet music striking on the ear. + + Without grief, without gloom, without death, + Without any sickness or debility-- + That is the sign of Evin: + Uncommon is the like of such a marvel. + + A beauty of a wondrous land, + Whose aspects are lovely, + Whose view is wondrous fair, + Incomparable is its haze.[4] + + Then if Silverland[5] is seen, + On which dragon-stones and crystals drop-- + The sea washes the wave against the land, + A crystal spray drops from its mane. + + Wealth, treasures of every hue + Are in the Land of Peace[5]--a beauty of freshness: + There is listening to sweet music, + Drinking of the choicest wine. + + Golden chariots on the plain of the sea + Heaving with the tide to the sun: + Chariots of silver on the Plain of Sports,[5] + And of bronze that has no blemish. + + Steeds of yellow gold are on the sward there, + Other steeds with crimson colour, + Others again with a coat upon their backs + Of the hue of all-blue heaven. + + At sunrise there comes + A fair man illumining level lands: + He rides upon the white sea-washed plain, + He stirs the ocean till it is blood. + + A host comes across the clear sea, + They exhibit their rowing to the land: + Then they row to the shining stone + From which arises music a hundredfold. + + It sings a strain unto the host + Through ages long, it is never weary: + Its music swells with choruses of hundreds-- + They expect neither decay nor death. + + Many-shaped Evna by the sea, + Whether it be near, whether it be far-- + In which are thousands of many-hued women, + Which the clear sea encircles. + + If one has heard the voice of the music, + The chorus of little birds from the Land of Peace, + A band of women comes from a height + To the plain of sport in which he is. + + There comes happiness with health + To the land against which laughter peals: + Into the Land of Peace at every season + Comes everlasting joy. + + Through the ever-fair weather + Silver is showered on the lands, + A pure-white cliff over the range of the sea + Receives from the sun its heat. + + There are thrice fifty distant isles + In the ocean to the west of us: + Larger than Erin twice + Is each of them, or thrice. + + A wonderful child will be born after ages, + Who will not be in lofty places, + The son of a woman whose mate is unknown, + He will seize the rule of the many thousands. + + A rule without beginning, without end. + He has created the world so that it is perfect: + Earth and sea are His-- + Woe to him that shall be under His unwill! + + 'Tis He that made the heavens, + Happy he that has a white heart! + He will purify multitudes with pure water, + 'Tis He that will heal your sicknesses. + + Not to all of you is my speech, + Though its great marvel has been revealed: + Let Bran listen from the crowd of the world + To the wisdom told to him. + + Do not sink upon a bed of sloth! + Let not intoxication overcome thee! + Begin a voyage across the clear sea, + If perchance thou mayst reach the Land of Women. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 3: The name of one of the Isles of the Happy.] + +[Footnote 4: 'Ese vapor transparente y dorado, que solo se ve en los +climas meridionales.'] + +[Footnote 5: The name of one of the Isles of the Happy.] + + + + +THE SEA-GOD'S ADDRESS TO BRAN + + + Then on the morrow Bran went upon the sea. When he had been + at sea two days and two nights, he saw a man in a chariot + coming towards him over the sea. It was Manannan, the son of + Ler, who sang these quatrains to him. + + To Bran in his coracle it seems + A marvellous beauty across the clear sea: + To me in my chariot from afar + It is a flowery plain on which he rides. + + What is a clear sea + For the prowed skiff in which Bran is, + That to me in my chariot of two wheels + Is a delightful plain with a wealth of flowers. + + Bran sees + A mass of waves beating across the clear sea: + I see myself in the Plain of Sports + Red-headed flowers that have no fault. + + Sea-horses glisten in summer + As far as Bran can stretch his glance: + Rivers pour forth a stream of honey + In the land of Manannan, son of Ler. + + The sheen of the main on which thou art, + The dazzling white of the sea on which thou rowest about-- + Yellow and azure are spread out, + It is a light and airy land. + + Speckled salmon leap from the womb + Out of the white sea on which thou lookest: + They are calves, they are lambs of fair hue, + With truce, without mutual slaughter. + + Though thou seest but one chariot-rider + In the Pleasant Plain of many flowers, + There are many steeds on its surface, + Though them thou seest not. + + Large is the plain, numerous is the host, + Colours shine with pure glory, + A white stream of silver, stairs of gold + Afford a welcome with all abundance. + + An enchanting game, most delicious, + They play over the luscious wine, + Men and gentle women under a bush, + Without sin, without transgression. + + Along the top of a wood + Thy coracle has swum across ridges, + There is a wood laden with beautiful fruit + Under the prow of thy little skiff. + + A wood with blossom and with fruit + On which is the vine's veritable fragrance, + A wood without decay, without defect, + On which is a foliage of a golden hue. + + We are from the beginning of creation + Without old age, without consummation of clay, + Hence we expect not there might be frailty-- + Transgression has not come to us. + + Steadily then let Bran row! + It is not far to the Land of Women: + Evna with manifold bounteousness + He will reach before the sun is set. + + + + +THE TRYST AFTER DEATH + + + Fothad Canann, the leader of a Connaught warrior-band, had + carried off the wife of Alill of Munster with her consent. + The outraged husband pursued them and a fierce battle was + fought, in which Fothad and Alill fell by each other's hand. + The lovers had engaged to meet in the evening after the + battle. Faithful to his word, the spirit of the slain + warrior kept the tryst and thus addressed his paramour: + + Hush, woman, do not speak to me! My thoughts are not with thee. + My thoughts are still in the encounter at Feic. + + My bloody corpse lies by the side of the Slope of two Brinks; + My head all unwashed is among warrior-bands in fierce slaughter. + + It is blindness for any one making a tryst to set aside the tryst with + Death: + The tryst that we made at Claragh has been kept by me in pale death. + + It was destined for me,--unhappy journey! at Feic my grave had been + marked out; + It was ordained for me--O sorrowful fight! to fall by warriors of + another land. + + 'Tis not I alone who in the fulness of desires has gone astray to meet + a woman-- + No reproach to thee, though it was for thy sake--wretched is our last + meeting! + Had we known it would be thus, it had not been hard to desist. + + The noble-faced, grey-horsed warrior-band has not betrayed me. + Alas! for the wonderful yew-forest,[6] that they should have gone into + the abode of clay! + + Had they been alive, they would have revenged their lords; + Had mighty death not intervened, this warrior-band had not been + unavenged by me. + + To their very end they were brave; they ever strove for victory over + their foes; + They would still sing a stave--a deep-toned shout,--they sprang from + the race of a noble lord. + + That was a joyous, lithe-limbed band to the very hour when they were + slain: + The green-leaved forest has received them--it was an all-fierce + slaughter. + + Well-armed Domnall, he of the red draught, he was the Lugh[7] of the + well-accoutred hosts: + By him in the ford--it was doom of death--Congal the Slender fell. + + The three Eoghans, the three Flanns, they were renowned outlaws; + Four men fell by each of them, it was not a coward's portion. + + Swiftly Cu-Domna reached us, making for his namesake: + On the hill of the encounter the body of Flann the Little will be + found. + + With him where his bloody bed is thou wilt find eight men: + Though we thought them feeble, the leavings of the weapon of Mughirne's + son. + + Not feebly fights Falvey the Red; the play of his spear-strings withers + the host; + Ferchorb of radiant body leapt upon the field and dealt seven murderous + blows. + + Front to front twelve warriors stood against me in mutual fight: + Not one of them all remains that I did not leave in slaughter. + + Then we two exchanged spears, I and Alill, Eoghan's son: + We both perished--O the fierceness of those stout thrusts! + We fell by each other though it was senseless: it was the encounter of + two heroes. + + Do not await the terror of night on the battle-field among the slain + warriors: + One should not hold converse with ghosts! betake thee home, carry my + spoils with thee! + + Every one will tell thee that mine was not the raiment of a churl: + A crimson cloak and a white tunic, a belt of silver, no paltry work! + + My five-edged spear, a murderous lance, whose slaughters have been + many; + A shield with five circles and a boss of bronze, by which they used + to swear binding oaths. + + The white cup of my cup-bearer, a shining gem, will glitter before + thee; + My golden finger-ring, my bracelets, treasures without a flaw, King Nia + Nar had brought them over the sea. + + Cailte's brooch, a pin with luck, it was one of his marvellous + treasures: + Two heads of silver round a head of gold, a goodly piece, though small. + + My draught-board--no mean treasure!--is thine; take it with thee. + Noble blood drips on its rim, it lies not far hence. + + Many a body of the spear-armed host lies here and there around its + crimson woof; + A dense bush of the ruddy oak-wood conceals it by the side of the + grave. + + As thou carefully searchest for it thou shouldst not speak much: + Earth never covered anything so marvellous. + + One half of its pieces are yellow gold, the other are white bronze; + Its woof is of pearls; it is the wonder of smiths how it was wrought. + + The bag for its pieces,--'tis a marvel of a story--its rim is + embroidered with gold; + The master-smith has left a lock upon it which no ignorant person can + open. + + A four-cornered casket,--it is but tiny--made of coils of red gold; + One hundred ounces of white bronze have been put into it firmly. + + For it is of a coil of firm red gold, Dinoll the goldsmith brought it + over the sea; + Even one of its clasps only has been priced at seven slave-women.[8] + + Memories describe it as one of Turvey's master-works: + In the time of Art--he was a luxurious king--'tis then Turvey, lord of + many herds, made it. + + Smiths never made any work comparable with it; + Earth never hid a king's jewel so marvellous. + + If thou be cunning as to its price, I know thy children will never be + in want; + If thou hoard it, a close treasure, none of thy offspring will ever be + destitute. + + There are around us here and there many spoils of famous luck: + Horrible are the huge entrails which the Morrigan[9] washes. + + She came to us from the edge of a spear, 'tis she that egged us on. + Many are the spoils she washes, terrible the hateful laugh she laughs. + + She has flung her mane over her back--it is a stout heart that will not + quail at her: + Though she is so near to us, do not let fear overcome thee! + + In the morning I shall part from all that is human, I shall follow the + warrior-band; + Go to thy house, stay not here, the end of the night is at hand. + + Some one will at all times remember this song of Fothad Canann; + My discourse with thee shall not be unrenowned, if thou remember my + bequest. + + Since my grave will be frequented, let a conspicuous tomb be raised; + Thy trouble for thy love is no loss of labour. + + My riddled body must now part from thee awhile, my soul to be tortured + by the black demon. + Save for the worship of Heaven's King, love of this world is folly. + + I hear the dusky ousel that sends a joyous greeting to all the + faithful: + My speech, my shape are spectral--hush, woman, do not speak to me! + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 6: A kenning for a band of warriors. 'The flowers of the forest +have all wede away.'] + +[Footnote 7: A famous mythical hero.] + +[Footnote 8: A slave-woman (rated at three cows) was the standard of value +among the ancient Irish.] + +[Footnote 9: A battle-goddess.] + + + + +DEIRDRE'S FAREWELL TO SCOTLAND + + + A beloved land is yon land in the east, + Alba[10] with its marvels. + I would not have come hither[11] out of it, + Had I not come with Noisi. + + Beloved are Dun Fidga and Dun Finn, + Beloved is the fortress above them, + Beloved is the Isle of the Thorn-bush, + And beloved is Dun Sweeny. + + Caill Cuan! + Unto which Ainnle would go, alas! + Short we thought the time there, + Noisi and I in the land of Alba. + + Glen Lay! + There I used to sleep under a shapely rock. + Fish and venison and badger's fat, + That was my portion in Glen Lay. + + Glen Massan! + Tall is its wild garlic, white are its stalks: + We used to have a broken sleep + On the grassy river-mouth of Massan. + + Glen Etive! + There I raised my first house. + Delightful its house! when we rose in the morning + A sunny cattle-fold was Glen Etive. + + Glen Urchain! + That was the straight, fair-ridged glen! + Never was man of his age prouder + Than Noisi in Glen Urchain. + + Glen Da Ruadh! + Hail to him who hath it as an heritage! + Sweet is the cuckoo's voice on bending branch + On the peak above Glen Da Ruadh. + + Beloved is Draighen over a firm beach! + Beloved its water in pure sand! + I would never have left it, from the east, + Had I not come with my beloved. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 10: _i.e._ Scotland.] + +[Footnote 11: _i.e._ to Ireland.] + + + + +DEIRDRE'S LAMENT + + + And Deirdre dishevelled her hair and began kissing Noisi and + drinking his blood, and the colour of embers came into her + cheeks, and she uttered this lay. + + Long is the day without Usnagh's Children; + It was never mournful to be in their company. + A king's sons, by whom exiles were rewarded, + Three lions from the Hill of the Cave. + + Three dragons of Dun Monidh, + The three champions from the Red Branch: + After them I shall not live-- + Three that used to break every onrush. + + Three darlings of the women of Britain, + Three hawks of Slieve Gullion, + Sons of a king whom valour served, + To whom soldiers would pay homage. + + Three heroes who were not good at homage, + Their fall is cause of sorrow-- + Three sons of Cathba's daughter, + Three props of the battle-host of Coolney. + + Three vigorous bears, + Three lions out of Liss Una, + Three lions who loved their praise, + Three pet sons of Ulster. + + That I should remain after Noisi + Let no one in the world suppose! + After Ardan and Ainnle + My time would not be long. + + Ulster's high-king, my first husband, + I forsook for Noisi's love: + Short my life after them, + I will perform their funeral game. + + After them I will not be alive-- + Three that would go into every conflict, + Three who liked to endure hardships, + Three heroes who never refused combat. + + O man that diggest the tomb, + And that puttest my darling from me, + Make not the grave too narrow, + I shall be beside the noble ones. + + + + +THE HOSTS OF FAERY + + + White shields they carry in their hands, + With emblems of pale silver; + With glittering blue swords, + With mighty stout horns. + + In well-devised battle array, + Ahead of their fair chieftain + They march amid blue spears, + Pale-visaged, curly-headed bands. + + They scatter the battalions of the foe, + They ravage every land they attack, + Splendidly they march to combat, + A swift, distinguished, avenging host! + + No wonder though their strength be great: + Sons of queens and kings are one and all; + On their heads are + Beautiful golden-yellow manes. + + With smooth comely bodies, + With bright blue-starred eyes, + With pure crystal teeth, + With thin red lips. + + Good they are at man-slaying, + Melodious in the ale-house, + Masterly at making songs, + Skilled at playing _fidchell_.[12] + + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 12: A game like draughts or chess.] + + + + +FROM THE VISION OF MAC CONGLINNE + + + A vision that appeared to me, + An apparition wonderful + I tell to all: + There was a coracle all of lard + Within a port of New-milk Lake + Upon the world's smooth sea. + + We went into that man-of-war, + 'Twas warrior-like to take the road + O'er ocean's heaving waves. + Our oar-strokes then we pulled + Across the level of the main, + Throwing the sea's harvest up + Like honey, the sea-soil. + + The fort we reached was beautiful, + With works of custards thick, + Beyond the lake. + Fresh butter was the bridge in front, + The rubble dyke was fair white wheat, + Bacon the palisade. + + Stately, pleasantly it sat, + A compact house and strong. + Then I went in: + The door of it was hung beef, + The threshold was dry bread, + Cheese-curds the walls. + + Smooth pillars of old cheese + And sappy bacon props + Alternate ranged; + Stately beams of mellow cream, + White posts of real curds + Kept up the house. + + Behind it was a well of wine, + Beer and bragget in streams, + Each full pool to the taste. + Malt in smooth wavy sea + Over a lard-spring's brink + Flowed through the floor. + + A lake of juicy pottage + Under a cream of oozy lard + Lay 'twixt it and the sea. + Hedges of butter fenced it round, + Under a crest of white-mantled lard + Around the wall outside. + + A row of fragrant apple-trees, + An orchard in its pink-tipped bloom, + Between it and the hill. + A forest tall of real leeks, + Of onions and of carrots, stood + Behind the house. + + Within, a household generous, + A welcome of red, firm-fed men, + Around the fire: + Seven bead-strings and necklets seven + Of cheeses and of bits of tripe + Round each man's neck. + + The Chief in cloak of beefy fat + Beside his noble wife and fair + I then beheld. + Below the lofty caldron's spit + Then the Dispenser I beheld, + His fleshfork on his back. + + Wheatlet son of Milklet, + Son of juicy Bacon, + Is mine own name. + Honeyed Butter-roll + Is the man's name + That bears my bag. + + Haunch of Mutton + Is my dog's name, + Of lovely leaps. + Lard, my wife, + Sweetly smiles + Across the brose. + + Cheese-curds, my daughter, + Goes round the spit, + Fair is her fame. + Corned Beef is my son, + Who beams over a cloak, + Enormous, of fat. + + Savour of Savours + Is the name of my wife's maid: + Morning-early + Across New-milk Lake she went. + + Beef-lard, my steed, + An excellent stallion + That increases studs; + A guard against toil + Is the saddle of cheese + Upon his back. + + A large necklace of delicious cheese-curds + Around his back; + His halter and his traces all + Of fresh butter. + + + + +RELIGIOUS POETRY + + + + +THE DEER'S CRY + + + Patrick sang this hymn when the ambuscades were laid against + him by King Loeguire (Leary) that he might not go to Tara to + sow the faith. Then it seemed to those lying in ambush that + he and his monks were wild deer with a fawn, even Benen, + following them. And its name is 'Deer's Cry.' + + 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. + + I arise to-day + Through the strength of Christ's birth with His baptism, + Through the strength of His crucifixion with His burial, + Through the strength of His resurrection with His ascension, + Through the strength of His descent for the judgment of Doom. + + I arise to-day + Through the strength of the love of Cherubim, + In obedience of angels, + In the service of archangels, + In hope of resurrection to meet with reward, + In prayers of patriarchs, + In predictions of prophets, + In preachings of apostles, + In faiths of confessors, + In innocence of holy virgins, + In deeds of righteous men. + + I arise to-day + Through the strength of heaven: + Light of sun, + Radiance of moon, + Splendour of fire, + Speed of lightning, + Swiftness of wind, + Depth of sea, + Stability of earth, + Firmness of rock. + + 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. + + I summon to-day all these powers between me and those evils, + Against every cruel merciless power that may oppose my body and soul, + Against incantations of false prophets, + Against black laws of pagandom, + Against false laws of heretics, + Against craft of idolatry, + Against spells of women and smiths and wizards, + Against every knowledge that corrupts man's body and soul. + + 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. + + + + +AN EVEN-SONG + +PATRICK SANG THIS + + + May Thy holy angels, O Christ, son of living God, + Guard our sleep, our rest, our shining bed. + + Let them reveal true visions to us in our sleep, + O high-prince of the universe, O great king of the mysteries! + + May no demons, no ill, no calamity or terrifying dreams + Disturb our rest, our willing, prompt repose. + + May our watch be holy, our work, our task, + Our sleep, our rest without let, without break. + + + + +PATRICK'S BLESSING ON MUNSTER + + + God's blessing upon Munster, + Men, women, children! + A blessing on the land + Which gives them fruit! + + A blessing on every wealth + Which is brought forth on their marches! + No one to be in want of help: + God's blessing upon Munster! + + A blessing on their peaks, + On their bare flagstones, + A blessing on their glens, + A blessing on their ridges! + + Like sand of sea under ships + Be the number of their hearths: + On slopes, on plains, + On mountain-sides, on peaks. + + + + +THE HERMIT'S SONG + + + I wish, O Son of the living God, O ancient, eternal King, + For a hidden little hut in the wilderness that it may be my dwelling. + + An all-grey lithe little lark to be by its side, + A clear pool to wash away sins through the grace of the Holy Spirit. + + Quite near, a beautiful wood around it on every side, + To nurse many-voiced birds, hiding it with its shelter. + + A southern aspect for warmth, a little brook across its floor, + A choice land with many gracious gifts such as be good for every plant. + + A few men of sense--we will tell their number-- + Humble and obedient, to pray to the King:-- + + Four times three, three times four, fit for every need, + Twice six in the church, both north and south:-- + + Six pairs besides myself, + Praying for ever the King who makes the sun shine. + + A pleasant church and with the linen altar-cloth, a dwelling for God + from Heaven; + Then, shining candles above the pure white Scriptures. + + One house for all to go to for the care of the body, + Without ribaldry, without boasting, without thought of evil. + + This is the husbandry I would take, I would choose, and will not hide + it: + Fragrant leek, hens, salmon, trout, bees. + + Raiment and food enough for me from the King of fair fame, + And I to be sitting for a while praying God in every place. + + + + +A PRAYER TO THE VIRGIN + + + Gentle Mary, noble maiden, give us help! + Shrine of our Lord's body, casket of the mysteries! + + Queen of queens, pure holy maiden, + Pray for us that our wretched transgression be forgiven for Thy sake. + + Merciful one, forgiving one, with the grace of the Holy Spirit, + Pray with us the true-judging King of the goodly ambrosial clan. + + Branch of Jesse's tree in the beauteous hazel-wood, + Pray for me until I obtain forgiveness of my foul sins. + + Mary, splendid diadem, Thou that hast saved our race, + Glorious noble torch, orchard of Kings! + + Brilliant one, transplendent one, with the deed of pure chastity, + Fair golden illumined ark, holy daughter from Heaven! + + Mother of righteousness, Thou that excellest all else, + Pray with me Thy first-born to save me on the day of Doom. + + Noble rare star, tree under blossom, + Powerful choice lamp, sun that warmeth every one. + + Ladder of the great track by which every saint ascends, + Mayst Thou be our safeguard towards the glorious Kingdom. + + Fair fragrant seat chosen by the King, + The noble guest who was in Thy womb three times three months. + + Glorious royal porch through which He was incarnated, + The splendid chosen sun, Jesus, Son of the living God. + + For the sake of the fair babe that was conceived in Thy womb, + For the sake of the holy child that is High-King in every place, + + For the sake of His cross that is higher than any cross, + For the sake of His burial when He was buried in a stone-tomb, + + For the sake of His resurrection when He arose before every one, + For the sake of the holy household from every place to Doom, + + Be Thou our safeguard in the Kingdom of the good Lord, + That we may meet with dear Jesus--that is our prayer--hail! + + + + +EVE'S LAMENT + + + I am Eve, great Adam's wife, + 'Tis I that outraged Jesus of old; + 'Tis I that robbed my children of Heaven, + By rights 'tis I that should have gone upon the cross. + + I had a kingly house to please me, + Grievous the evil choice that disgraced me, + Grievous the wicked advice that withered me! + Alas! my hand is not pure. + + 'Tis I that plucked the apple, + Which went across my gullet: + So long as they endure in the light of day, + So long women will not cease from folly. + + There would be no ice in any place, + There would be no glistening windy winter, + There would be no hell, there would be no sorrow, + There would be no fear, if it were not for me. + + + + +ON THE FLIGHTINESS OF THOUGHT + + + Shame to my thoughts, how they stray from me! + I fear great danger from it on the day of eternal Doom. + + During the psalms they wander on a path that is not right: + They fash, they fret, they misbehave before the eyes of great God. + + Through eager crowds, through companies of wanton women, + Through woods, through cities--swifter they are than the wind. + + Now through paths of loveliness, anon of riotous shame! + + Without a ferry or ever missing a step they go across every sea: + Swiftly they leap in one bound from earth to heaven. + + They run a race of folly anear and afar: + After a course of giddiness they return to their home. + + Though one should try to bind them or put shackles on their feet, + They are neither constant nor mindful to take a spell of rest. + + Neither sword-edge nor crack of whip will keep them down strongly: + As slippery as an eel's tail they glide out of my grasp. + + Neither lock nor firm-vaulted dungeon nor any fetter on earth, + Stronghold nor sea nor bleak fastness restrains them from their course. + + O beloved truly chaste Christ to whom every eye is clear, + May the grace of the seven-fold Spirit come to keep them, to check + them! + + Rule this heart of mine, O dread God of the elements, + That Thou mayst be my love, that I may do Thy will. + + That I may reach Christ with His chosen companions, that we may be + together! + _They_ are neither fickle nor inconstant--not as I am. + + + + +TO CRINOG + + + Crinog, melodious is your song. + Though young no more you are still bashful. + We two grew up together in Niall's northern land, + When we used to sleep together in tranquil slumber. + + That was my age when you slept with me, + O peerless lady of pleasant wisdom: + A pure-hearted youth, lovely without a flaw, + A gentle boy of seven sweet years. + + We lived in the great world of Banva[13] + Without sullying soul or body, + My flashing eye full of love for you, + Like a poor innocent untempted by evil. + + Your just counsel is ever ready, + Wherever we are we seek it: + To love your penetrating wisdom is better + Than glib discourse with a king. + + Since then you have slept with four men after me, + Without folly or falling away: + I know, I hear it on all sides, + You are pure, without sin from man. + + At last, after weary wanderings, + You have come to me again, + Darkness of age has settled on your face: + Sinless your life draws near its end. + + You are still dear to me, faultless one, + You shall have welcome from me without stint; + You will not let us be drowned in torment: + We will earnestly practise devotion with you. + + The lasting world is full of your fame, + Far and wide you have wandered on every track: + If every day we followed your ways, + We should come safe into the presence of dread God. + + You leave an example and a bequest + To every one in this world, + You have taught us by your life: + Earnest prayer to God is no fallacy. + + Then may God grant us peace and happiness! + May the countenance of the King + Shine brightly upon us + When we leave behind us our withered bodies. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 13: A name for Ireland.] + + + + +THE DEVIL'S TRIBUTE TO MOLING + + + Once as Moling was praying in his church he saw a man coming + in to him. Purple raiment he wore and a distinguished form + had he. 'Well met, cleric!' says he. 'Amen!' says Moling. + 'Why dost thou not salute me?' says the man. 'Who art thou?' + says Moling. 'I am Christ, the Son of God,' he answers. 'I + do not know that,' says Moling. 'When Christ used to come to + converse with God's servants, 'twas not in purple or with + royal pomp he would come, but in the shape of a leper.' + 'Then dost thou not believe in me?' says the man. 'Whom dost + thou suppose to be here?' 'I suppose,' says Moling, 'that it + is the Devil for my hurt.' 'Thy unbelief will be ill for + thee,' says the man. 'Well,' says Moling, raising the + Gospel, 'here is thy successor, the Gospel of Christ.' + 'Raise it not, cleric!' says the Devil; 'it is as thou + thinkest: I am the man of tribulations.' 'Wherefore hast + thou come?' says Moling. 'That thou mayst bestow a blessing + upon me.' 'I will not bestow it,' says Moling, 'for thou + dost not deserve it. Besides, what good could it do thee?' + 'If,' says the Devil, 'thou shouldst go into a tub of honey + and bathe therein with thy raiment on, its odour would + remain upon thee unless the raiment were washed.' 'How would + that affect thee?' asks Moling. 'Because, though thy + blessing do nought else to me, its good luck and its virtue + and its blossom will be on me externally.' 'Thou shalt not + have it,' says Moling, 'for thou deservest it not.' 'Well,' + said the Devil, 'then bestow the full of a curse on me.' + 'What good were that to thee?' asks Moling. 'The venom and + the hurt of the curse will be on the lips from which it will + come.' 'Go,' says Moling; 'thou hast no right to a + blessing.' 'Better were it for me that I had. How shall I + earn it?' 'By service to God,' says Moling. 'Woe is me!' + says the Devil, 'I cannot bring it.' 'Even a trifle of + study.' 'Thine own study is not greater, and yet it helps me + not.' 'Fasting, then,' says Moling. 'I have been fasting + since the beginning of the world, and not the better thereof + am I.' 'Making genuflexions,' says Moling. 'I cannot bend + forward,' says the Devil, 'for backwards are my knees.' 'Go + forth,' says Moling; 'I cannot teach thee nor help thee.' + Then the Devil said: + + He is pure gold, he is the sky around the sun, + He is a vessel of silver with wine, + He is an angel, he is holy wisdom, + Whoso doth the will of the King. + + He is a bird round which a trap closes, + He is a leaky ship in perilous danger, + He is an empty vessel, a withered tree, + Who doth not the will of the King above. + + He is a fragrant branch with its blossom, + He is a vessel full of honey, + He is a precious stone with its virtue, + Whoso doth the will of God's Son from Heaven. + + He is a blind nut in which there is no good, + He is a stinking rottenness, a withered tree, + He is a branch of a blossomless crab-apple, + Whoso doth not the will of the King. + + Whoso doth the will of God's Son from Heaven + Is a brilliant summer-sun, + Is a dais of God of Heaven, + Is a pure crystalline vessel. + + He is a victorious racehorse over a smooth plain, + The man that striveth after the Kingdom of great God; + He is a chariot that is seen + Under a triumphant king. + + He is a sun that warms holy Heaven, + A man with whom the Great King is pleased, + He is a temple blessed, noble, + He is a holy shrine bedecked with gold. + + He is an altar on which wine is dealt, + Round which a multitude of melodies is sung, + He is a cleansed chalice with liquor, + He is fair white bronze, he is gold. + + + + +MAELISU'S HYMN TO THE ARCHANGEL MICHAEL + + + O angel! + Bear, O Michael of great miracles, + To the Lord my plaint. + + Hearest thou? + Ask of forgiving God + Forgiveness of all my vast evil. + + Delay not! + Carry my fervent prayer + To the King, to the great King! + + To my soul + Bring help, bring comfort + At the hour of its leaving earth. + + Stoutly + To meet my expectant soul + Come with many thousand angels! + + O soldier! + Against the crooked, wicked, militant world + Come to my help in earnest! + + Do not + Disdain what I say! + As long as I live do not desert me! + + Thee I choose, + That thou mayst save my soul, + My mind, my sense, my body. + + O thou of goodly counsels, + Victorious, triumphant one, + Angelic slayer of Antichrist! + + + + +THE MOTHERS' LAMENT AT THE SLAUGHTER OF THE INNOCENTS + + +Then, as the executioner plucked her son from her breast, one of the women +said: + + Why do you tear from me my darling son, + The fruit of my womb? + It was I who bore him, + My breast he drank. + My womb carried him about, + My vitals he sucked, + My heart he filled. + He was my life, + 'Tis death to have him taken from me. + My strength has ebbed, + My speech is silenced, + My eyes are blinded. + +Then another woman said: + + It is my son you take from me. + I did not do the evil, + But kill me--me! + Kill not my son! + My breasts are sapless, + My eyes are wet, + My hands shake, + My poor body totters. + My husband has no son, + And I no strength. + My life is like death. + O my own son, O God! + My youth without reward, + My birthless sicknesses + Without requital until Doom. + My breasts are silent, + My heart is wrung. + +Then said another woman: + + Ye are seeking to kill one, + Ye are killing many. + Infants ye slay, + The fathers ye wound, + The mothers ye kill. + Hell with your deed is full, + Heaven is shut, + Ye have spilt the blood of guiltless innocents. + +And yet another woman said: + + O Christ, come to me! + With my son take my soul quickly! + O great Mary, Mother of God's Son, + What shall I do without my son? + For Thy Son my spirit and sense are killed. + I am become a crazy woman for my son. + After the piteous slaughter + My heart is a clot of blood + From this day till Doom. + + + + +SONGS OF NATURE + + + + +KING AND HERMIT + + Marvan, brother of King Guare of Connaught in the seventh + century, had renounced the life of a warrior-prince for that + of a hermit. The king endeavoured to persuade his brother to + return to his court, when the following colloquy took place + between them. + +GUARE + + Why, hermit Marvan, sleepest thou not + Upon a feather quilt? + Why rather sleepest thou abroad + Upon a pitchpine floor? + +MARVAN + + I have a shieling in the wood, + None knows it save my God: + An ash-tree on the hither side, a hazel-bush beyond, + A huge old tree encompasses it. + + Two heath-clad doorposts for support, + And a lintel of honeysuckle: + The forest around its narrowness sheds + Its mast upon fat swine. + + The size of my shieling tiny, not too tiny, + Many are its familiar paths: + From its gable a sweet strain sings + A she-bird in her cloak of the ousel's hue. + + The stags of Oakridge leap + Into the river of clear banks: + Thence red Roiny can be seen, + Glorious Muckraw and Moinmoy.[14] + + A hiding mane of green-barked yew + Supports the sky: + Beautiful spot! the large green of an oak + Fronting the storm. + + A tree of apples--great its bounty! + Like a hostel, vast! + A pretty bush, thick as a fist, of tiny hazel-nuts, + A green mass of branches. + + A choice pure spring and princely water + To drink: + There spring watercresses, yew-berries, + Ivy-bushes thick as a man. + + Around it tame swine lie down. + Goats, pigs, + Wild swine, grazing deer, + A badger's brood. + + A peaceful troop, a heavy host of denizens of the soil, + A-trysting at my house: + To meet them foxes come, + How delightful! + + Fairest princes come to my house, + A ready gathering: + Pure water, perennial bushes, + Salmon, trout. + + A bush of rowan, black sloes, + Dusky blackthorns, + Plenty of food, acorns, pure berries, + Bare flags. + + A clutch of eggs, honey, delicious mast, + God has sent it: + Sweet apples, red whortleberries, + And blaeberries. + + Ale with herbs, a dish of strawberries + Of good taste and colour, + Haws, berries of the juniper, + Sloes, nuts. + + A cup with mead of hazel-nut, blue-bells, + Quick-growing rushes, + Dun oaklets, manes of briar, + Goodly sweet tangle. + + When brilliant summer-time spreads its coloured mantle, + Sweet-tasting fragrance! + Pignuts, wild marjoram, green leeks, + Verdant pureness! + + The music of the bright red-breasted men, + A lovely movement! + The strain of the thrush, familiar cuckoos + Above my house. + + Swarms of bees and chafers, the little musicians of the world, + A gentle chorus: + Wild geese and ducks, shortly before summer's end, + The music of the dark torrent. + + An active songster, a lively wren + From the hazel-bough, + Beautiful hooded birds, woodpeckers, + A vast multitude! + + Fair white birds come, herons, seagulls, + The cuckoo sings between-- + No mournful music! dun heathpoults + Out of the russet heather. + + The lowing of heifers in summer, + Brightest of seasons! + Not bitter, toilsome over the fertile plain, + Delightful, smooth! + + The voice of the wind against the branchy wood + Upon the deep-blue sky: + Falls of the river, the note of the swan, + Delicious music! + + The bravest band make cheer to me, + Who have not been hired: + In the eyes of Christ the ever-young I am no worse off + Than thou art. + + Though thou rejoicest in thy own pleasures, + Greater than any wealth; + I am grateful for what is given me + From my good Christ. + + Without an hour of fighting, without the din of strife + In my house, + Grateful to the Prince who giveth every good + To me in my shieling. + +GUARE + + I would give my glorious kingship + With the share of my father's heritage-- + To the hour of my death I would forfeit it + To be in thy company, my Marvan. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 14: Names of well-known plains.] + + + + +SONG OF THE SEA + + + A great tempest rages on the Plain of Ler, bold across its high borders + Wind has arisen, fierce winter has slain us; it has come across the sea, + It has pierced us like a spear. + + When the wind sets from the east, the spirit of the wave is roused, + It desires to rush past us westward to the land where sets the sun, + To the wild and broad green sea. + + When the wind sets from the north, it urges the dark fierce waves + Towards the southern world, surging in strife against the wide sky, + Listening to the witching song. + + When the wind sets from the west across the salt sea of swift currents, + It desires to go past us eastward towards the Sun-Tree, + Into the broad long-distant sea. + + When the wind sets from the south across the land of Saxons of mighty + shields, + The wave strikes the Isle of Scit, it surges up to the summit of + Caladnet, + And pounds the grey-green mouth of the Shannon. + + The ocean is in flood, the sea is full, delightful is the home of ships, + The wind whirls the sand around the estuary, + Swiftly the rudder cleaves the broad sea. + + With mighty force the wave has tumbled across each broad river-mouth, + Wind has come, white winter has slain us, around Cantire, around the + land of Alba, + Slieve-Dremon pours forth a full stream. + + Son of the God the Father, with mighty hosts, save me from the horror + of fierce tempests! + Righteous Lord of the Feast, only save me from the horrid blast, + From Hell with furious tempest! + + + + +SUMMER HAS COME + + + Summer has come, healthy and free, + Whence the brown wood is aslope; + The slender nimble deer leap, + And the path of seals is smooth. + + The cuckoo sings sweet music, + Whence there is smooth restful sleep; + Gentle birds leap upon the hill, + And swift grey stags. + + Heat has laid hold of the rest of the deer-- + The lovely cry of curly packs! + The white extent of the strand smiles, + There the swift sea is. + + A sound of playful breezes in the tops + Of a black oakwood is Drum Daill, + The noble hornless herd runs, + To whom Cuan-wood is a shelter. + + Green bursts out on every herb, + The top of the green oakwood is bushy, + Summer has come, winter has gone, + Twisted hollies wound the hound. + + The blackbird sings a loud strain, + To him the live wood is a heritage, + The sad angry sea is fallen asleep, + The speckled salmon leaps. + + The sun smiles over every land,-- + A parting for me from the brood of cares: + Hounds bark, stags tryst, + Ravens flourish, summer has come! + + + + +SONG OF SUMMER + + + Summer-time, season supreme! + Splendid is colour then. + Blackbirds sing a full lay + If there be a slender shaft of day. + + The dust-coloured cuckoo calls aloud: + Welcome, splendid summer! + The bitterness of bad weather is past, + The boughs of the wood are a thicket. + + Panic startles the heart of the deer, + The smooth sea runs apace-- + Season when ocean sinks asleep, + Blossom covers the world. + + Bees with puny strength carry + A goodly burden, the harvest of blossoms; + Up the mountain-side kine take with them mud, + The ant makes a rich meal. + + The harp of the forest sounds music, + The sail gathers--perfect peace; + Colour has settled on every height, + Haze on the lake of full waters. + + The corncrake, a strenuous bard, discourses, + The lofty cold waterfall sings + A welcome to the warm pool-- + The talk of the rushes has come. + + Light swallows dart aloft, + Loud melody encircles the hill, + The soft rich mast buds, + The stuttering quagmire prattles. + + The peat-bog is as the raven's coat, + The loud cuckoo bids welcome, + The speckled fish leaps-- + Strong is the bound of the swift warrior. + + Man flourishes, the maiden buds + In her fair strong pride. + Perfect each forest from top to ground, + Perfect each great stately plain. + + Delightful is the season's splendour, + Rough winter has gone: + Every fruitful wood shines white, + A joyous peace is summer. + + A flock of birds settles + In the midst of meadows, + The green field rustles, + Wherein is a brawling white stream. + + A wild longing is on you to race horses, + The ranked host is ranged around: + A bright shaft has been shot into the land, + So that the water-flag is gold beneath it. + + A timorous, tiny, persistent little fellow + Sings at the top of his voice, + The lark sings clear tidings: + Surpassing summer-time of delicate hues! + + + + +SUMMER IS GONE + + + My tidings for you: the stag bells, + Winter snows, summer is gone. + + Wind high and cold, low the sun, + Short his course, sea running high. + + Deep-red the bracken, its shape all gone-- + The wild-goose has raised his wonted cry. + + Cold has caught the wings of birds; + Season of ice--these are my tidings. + + + + +A SONG OF WINTER + + + Cold, cold! + Cold to-night is broad Moylurg, + Higher the snow than the mountain-range, + The deer cannot get at their food. + + Cold till Doom! + The storm has spread over all: + A river is each furrow upon the slope, + Each ford a full pool. + + A great tidal sea is each loch, + A full loch is each pool: + Horses cannot get over the ford of Ross, + No more can two feet get there. + + The fish of Ireland are a-roaming, + There is no strand which the wave does not pound, + Not a town there is in the land, + Not a bell is heard, no crane talks. + + The wolves of Cuan-wood get + Neither rest nor sleep in their lair, + The little wren cannot find + Shelter in her nest on the slope of Lon. + + Keen wind and cold ice + Has burst upon the little company of birds, + The blackbird cannot get a lee to her liking, + Shelter for its side in Cuan-wood. + + Cosy our pot on its hook, + Crazy the hut on the slope of Lon: + The snow has crushed the wood here, + Toilsome to climb up Ben-bo. + + Glenn Rye's ancient bird + From the bitter wind gets grief; + Great her misery and her pain, + The ice will get into her mouth. + + From flock and from down to rise-- + Take it to heart!--were folly for thee: + Ice in heaps on every ford-- + That is why I say 'cold'! + + + + +ARRAN + + + Arran of the many stags, + The sea strikes against its shoulder, + Isle in which companies are fed, + Ridge on which blue spears are reddened. + + Skittish deer are on her peaks, + Delicious berries on her manes, + Cool water in her rivers, + Mast upon her dun oaks. + + Greyhounds are in it and beagles, + Blackberries and sloes of the dark blackthorn, + Her dwellings close against the woods, + Deer scattered about her oak-woods. + + Gleaning of purple upon her rocks, + Faultless grass upon her slopes, + Over her fair shapely crags + Noise of dappled fawns a-skipping. + + Smooth is her level land, fat are her swine, + Bright are her fields, + Her nuts upon the tops of her hazel-wood, + Long galleys sailing past her. + + Delightful it is when the fair season comes, + Trout under the brinks of her rivers, + Seagulls answer each other round her white cliff, + Delightful at all times is Arran! + + + + +LOVE POETRY + + + + +THE SONG OF CREDE, DAUGHTER OF GUARE + + + In the battle of Aidne, Crede, the daughter of King Guare of + Aidne, beheld Dinertach of the Hy Fidgenti, 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 arrows that murder sleep + At every hour in the bitter-cold night: + Pangs of love throughout the day + For the company of the man from Roiny. + + Great love of a man from another land + Has come to me beyond all else: + It has taken my bloom, no colour is left, + It does not let me rest. + + Sweeter than songs was his speech, + Save holy adoration of Heaven's King; + He was a glorious flame, no boastful word fell from his lips, + A slender mate for a maid's side. + + When I was a child I was bashful, + I was not given to going to trysts: + Since I have come to a wayward age, + My wantonness has beguiled me. + + I have every good with Guare, + The King of cold Aidne: + But my mind has fallen away from my people + To the meadow at Irluachair. + + There is chanting in the meadow of glorious Aidne + Around the sides of Colman's Church: + Glorious flame, now sunk into the grave-- + Dinertach was his name. + + It wrings my pitiable heart, O chaste Christ, + What has fallen to my lot: + These are arrows that murder sleep + At every hour in the bitter-cold night. + + + + +LIADIN AND CURITHIR + + + Liadin of Corkaguiney, a poetess, went visiting into the + country of Connaught. There Curithir, himself a poet, made + an ale-feast for her. 'Why should not we two unite, Liadin?' + saith Curithir. 'A son of us two would be famous.' 'Do not + let us do so now,' saith she, 'lest my round of visiting be + ruined for me. If you will come for me again at my home, I + shall go with you.' That fell so. Southward he went, and a + single gillie behind him with his poet's dress in a bag upon + his back, while Curithir himself was in a poor garb. There + were spear-heads in the bag also. He went till he was at the + well beside Liadin's court. There he took his crimson dress + about him, and the heads were put upon their shafts, and he + stood brandishing them. + + Meanwhile Liadin had made a vow of chastity; but faithful to + her word she went with him. They proceed to the monastery of + Clonfert, where they put themselves under the spiritual + direction of Cummin, son of Fiachna. He first imposes a + slight probation upon them, allowing them to converse + without seeing each other. Then, challenged by Liadin, he + permits them a perilous freedom. In the result he banishes + Curithir, who thenceforward renounces love and becomes a + pilgrim. When Liadin still seeks him he crosses the sea. She + returns to the scene of their penance, and shortly dies. + When all is over, Cummin lovingly lays the stone where she + had mourned her love, and upon which she died, over the + grave of the unhappy maiden. + +CURITHIR + + Of late + Since I parted from Liadin, + Long as a month is every day, + Long as a year each month. + +LIADIN + + Joyless + The bargain I have made! + The heart of him I loved I wrung. + + 'Twas madness + Not to do his pleasure, + Were there not the fear of Heaven's King. + + 'Twas a trifle + That wrung Curithir's heart against me: + To him great was my gentleness. + + A short while I was + In the company of Curithir: + Sweet was my intimacy with him. + + The music of the forest + Would sing to me when with Curithir, + Together with the voice of the purple sea. + + Would that + Nothing of all I have done + Should have wrung his heart against me! + + Conceal it not! + He was my heart's love, + Whatever else I might love. + + A roaring flame + Has dissolved this heart of mine-- + Without him for certain it cannot live. + + + + +BARDIC POETRY + + + + +A DIRGE FOR KING NIALL OF THE NINE HOSTAGES (+ A.D. 405) + + +TUIRN SON OF TORNA + + When we used to go to the gathering with Echu's[15] son, + Yellow as a bright primrose was the hair upon the head of Cairenn's[16] + son. + +TORNA + + Well hast thou spoken, dear son. A bondmaid should be given thee + For the sake of the hair which thou hast likened to the colour of the + crown of the primrose. + + Eyelashes black, delicate, equal in beauty, and dark eyebrows-- + The crown of the woad, a bright hyacinth, that was the colour of his + pupils. + +TUIRN SON OF TORNA + + The colour of his cheeks at all seasons, even and symmetrical: + The fox-glove, the blood of a calf--a feast without a flaw! the crown of + the forest in May. + +TORNA + + His white teeth, his red lips that never reproved in anger-- + His shape like a fiery blaze overtopping the warriors of Erin. + + Like the moon, like the sun, like a fiery beacon was the splendour of + Niall: + Like a dragon-ship from the wave without a flaw was Niall, Echu's son. + +TUIRN SON OF TORNA + + This is a yearnful music, the wail of every mouth in Kerry-- + It increases my grief in my house for the death of Muredach's[17] + grandson. + + Saxons will ravage here in the east, noble men of Erin and Alba, + After the death of Niall, Echu's noble son--it is a bitter cause of + reproach. + +TORNA + + Saxons with overwhelming cries of war, hosts of Lombards from the + continent, + From the hour in which the king fell Gael and Pict are in a sore + straight. + +TUIRN SON OF TORNA + + Upon Tara's rampart his fair hair shone against his ruddy face: + Like unto the colour of his hair is red gold or the yellow iris. + +TORNA + + 'Twas great delight, 'twas great peace to be in the company of my dear + foster-son,[18] + When with Echu's son--it was no small thing--we used to go to the + gathering. + +TUIRN SON OF TORNA + + Darling hero of the white shoulder! whose tribes are vast, a beloved + host: + Every man was under protection when we used to go to forgather with him. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 15: Niall's father.] + +[Footnote 16: Niall's mother.] + +[Footnote 17: Niall's grandfather.] + +[Footnote 18: _i.e._ Niall.] + + + + +THE SONG OF CARROLL'S SWORD (A.D. 909) + + + Hail, sword of Carroll! Oft hast thou been in the great woof of war, + Oft giving battle, beheading high princes. + + Oft hast thou gone a-raiding in the hands of kings of great judgments, + Oft hast thou divided the spoil with a good king worthy of thee. + + Oft where men of Leinster were hast thou been in a white hand, + Oft hast thou been among kings, oft among great bands. + + Many were the kings that wielded thee in fight, + Many a shield hast thou cleft in battle, many a head and chest, many a + fair skin. + + Forty years without sorrow Enna of the noble hosts had thee, + Never wast thou in a strait, but in the hands of a very fierce king. + + Enna gave thee--'twas no niggardly gift--to his own son, to Dunling, + For thirty years in his possession, at last thou broughtest ruin to him. + + Many a king upon a noble steed possessed thee unto Dermot the kingly, the + fierce: + Sixteen years was the time Dermot had thee. + + At the feast of Allen Dermot the hardy-born bestowed thee, + Dermot, the noble king, gave thee to the man of Mairg, to Murigan. + + Forty years stoutly thou wast in the hand of Allen's high-king, + With Murigan of mighty deeds thou never wast a year without battle. + + In Wexford Murigan, the King of Vikings, gave thee to Carroll: + While he was upon the yellow earth Carroll gave thee to none. + + Thy bright point was a crimson point in the battle of Odba of the + Foreigners, + When thou leftest Aed Finnliath on his back in the battle of Odba of the + noble routs. + + Crimson was thy edge, it was seen; at Belach Moon thou wast proved, + In the valorous battle of Alvy's Plain throughout which the fighting + raged. + + Before thee the goodly host broke on a Thursday at Dun Ochtair, + When Aed the fierce and brilliant fell upon the hillside above Leafin. + + Before thee the host broke on the day when Kelly was slain, + Flannagan's son, with numbers of troops, in high lofty great Tara. + + Before thee they ebbed southwards in the battle of the Boyne of the rough + feats, + When Cnogva fell, the lance of valour, at seeing thee, for dread of thee. + + Thou wast furious, thou wast not weak, heroic was thy swift force, + When Ailill Frosach of Fal[19] fell in the front of the onset. + + Thou never hadst a day of defeat with Carroll of the beautiful garths. + He swore no lying oath, he went not against his word. + + Thou never hadst a day of sorrow, many a night thou hadst abroad; + Thou hadst awaiting thee many a king with many a battle. + + O sword of the kings of mighty fires, do not fear to be astray! + Thou shalt find thy man of craft, a lord worthy of thee. + + Who shall henceforth possess thee, or to whom wilt thou deal ruin? + From the day that Carroll departed, with whom wilt thou be bedded? + + Thou shalt not be neglected until thou come to the house of glorious + Naas: + Where Finn of the feasts is they will hail thee with 'welcome.' + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 19: A name for Ireland.] + + + + +EOCHAID ON THE DEATH OF KING AED MAC DOMNAILL UA NEILL[20] + + + Aed of Ailech, beloved he was to me, + Woe, O God, that he should have died! + Seven years with Aed of Ath I-- + One month with Mael na mBo[21] would be longer! + + Seven years I had with the King of Ross, + Delightful was my time with the lord of Slemish, + Though I were but one month with the king in the south, + I know that it would weary me. + + Many honours the king gave to me, + To pleasure me he brought down stags: + A herd of horses he gave to me in my day, + The great son of the woman from Magh Ai. + + Alas, O Comgall, master of harmonies, + That the son of Domnaill should be food for worms! + Alas that his face should be on the ground! + Alas for noble Ailech without Aed! + + From the day that great Aed was slain + Few men on earth but are in want: + Since _he_ has died that was another Lugh,[22] + It were right to shed tears of blood. + + Tara is deprived of her benefactor, + A blight is upon his kindred, + Torture is put upon the rays of the sun, + Glorious Erin is without Aed. + + Fair weather shines not on the mountain-side, + Fine-clustering fruit is not enjoyed, + The gloom of every night is dark + Since earth was put over Aed. + + Ye folk of great Armagh, + With whom the son of the chief lies on his back, + Cause of reproach will come of it + That your grave is open before Aed. + + In the battle of Craeb Tholcha in the north + I left my fair companions behind! + Alas for the fruit of the heavy bloodshed + Which severed Eochaid and Aed! + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 20: Who had fallen in the battle of Craeb Tholcha, A.D. 1004.] + +[Footnote 21: King of South Leinster.] + +[Footnote 22: A famous mythical hero.] + + + + +ERARD MAC COISSE ON THE DEATH OF KING MALACHY II.[23] + + + Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath![24] + Alas that thy lord is not alive! + The high-king of Meath of the polished walls, + His death has thrown us off our course. + + Thou without games, without drinking of ale, + Thou shining abode of the twisted horns! + After Malachy of noble shape + Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath! + + I upon the green of thy smooth knolls + Like Ronan's son after the Fiana, + Or like a hind after her fawn, + Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath! + + I got three hundred speckled cups, + Three hundred steeds and bridles + In this famous fort of noble shape-- + Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath! + + After Malachy and sweet Brian,[25] + And Murchad[26] that was never weak in hurdled battle, + My heart has been left without a leap of vigour, + Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath! + + Ochone! I am the wretched phantom, + Small are my wages since the three are gone. + Greater than my own ruin is my cause of lament, + Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath! + + Och! 'tis I that am the body without head, + I, Mac Coisse, chief of all poets-- + Now that my skill and my vigour are gone, + Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath! + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 23: King of Ireland. He died in 1022.] + +[Footnote 24: The Fort of the Shields, on Lough Ennel, Co. Westmeath.] + +[Footnote 25: _i.e._ Brian Boru, who had fallen in 1014 in the battle of +Clontarf.] + +[Footnote 26: Brian's son, fallen at Clontarf.] + + + + +MISCELLANEOUS + + + + +THE MONK AND HIS PET CAT + + + I and my white Pangur + Have each his special art: + His mind is set on hunting mice, + Mine is upon my special craft. + + I love to rest--better than any fame!-- + With close study at my little book: + White Pangur does not envy me: + He loves his childish play. + + When in our house we two are all alone-- + A tale without tedium! + We have--sport never-ending! + Something to exercise our wit. + + At times by feats of derring-do + A mouse sticks in his net, + While into my net there drops + A difficult problem of hard meaning. + + He points his full shining eye + Against the fence of the wall: + I point my clear though feeble eye + Against the keenness of science. + + He rejoices with quick leaps + When in his sharp claw sticks a mouse: + I too rejoice when I have grasped + A problem difficult and dearly loved. + + Though we are thus at all times, + Neither hinders the other, + Each of us pleased with his own art + Amuses himself alone. + + He is a master of the work + Which every day he does: + While I am at my own work + To bring difficulty to clearness. + + + + +COLUM CILLE'S GREETING TO IRELAND + + + Delightful to be on the Hill of Howth + Before going over the white-haired sea: + The dashing of the wave against its face, + The bareness of its shores and of its border. + + Delightful to be on the Hill of Howth + After coming over the white-bosomed sea; + To be rowing one's little coracle, + Ochone! on the wild-waved shore. + + Great is the speed of my coracle, + And its stern turned upon Derry: + Grievous is my errand over the main, + Travelling to Alba of the beetling brows. + + My foot in my tuneful coracle, + My sad heart tearful: + A man without guidance is weak, + Blind are all the ignorant. + + There is a grey eye + That will look back upon Erin: + It shall never see again + The men of Erin nor her women. + + I stretch my glance across the brine + From the firm oaken planks: + Many are the tears of my bright soft grey eye + As I look back upon Erin. + + My mind is upon Erin, + Upon Loch Lene, upon Linny, + Upon the land where Ulstermen are, + Upon gentle Munster and upon Meath. + + Many in the East are lanky chiels, + Many diseases there and distempers, + Many they with scanty dress, + Many the hard and jealous hearts. + + Plentiful in the West the fruit of the apple-tree, + Many kings and princes; + Plentiful are luxurious sloes, + Plentiful oak-woods of noble mast. + + Melodious her clerics, melodious her birds, + Gentle her youths, wise her elders, + Illustrious her men, famous to behold, + Illustrious her women for fond espousal. + + It is in the West sweet Brendan is, + And Colum son of Criffan, + And in the West fair Baithin shall be, + And in the West shall be Adamnan. + + Carry my greeting after that + To Comgall of eternal life: + Carry my greeting after that + To the stately king of fair Navan. + + Carry with thee, thou fair youth, + My blessing and my benediction, + One half upon Erin, sevenfold, + And half upon Alba at the same time. + + Carry my blessing with thee to the West, + My heart is broken in my breast: + Should sudden death overtake me, + It is for my great love of the Gael. + + Gael! Gael! beloved name! + It gladdens the heart to invoke it: + Beloved is Cummin of the beauteous hair, + Beloved are Cainnech and Comgall. + + Were all Alba mine + From its centre to its border, + I would rather have the site of a house + In the middle of fair Derry. + + It is for this I love Derry, + For its smoothness, for its purity, + And for its crowd of white angels + From one end to another. + + It is for this I love Derry, + For its smoothness, for its purity; + All full of angels + Is every leaf on the oaks of Derry. + + My Derry, my little oak-grove, + My dwelling and my little cell, + O living God that art in Heaven above, + Woe to him who violates it! + + Beloved are Durrow and Derry, + Beloved is Raphoe with purity, + Beloved Drumhome with its sweet acorns, + Beloved are Swords and Kells! + + Beloved also to my heart in the West + Drumcliff on Culcinne's strand: + To gaze upon fair Loch Foyle-- + The shape of its shores is delightful. + + Delightful it is, + The deep-red ocean where the sea-gulls cry, + As I come from Derry afar, + It is peaceful and it is delightful. + + + + +ON ANGUS THE CULDEE (+ ca. 830) + + + Delightful to sit here thus + By the side of the cold pure Nore: + Though it was frequented, it was never a path o raids + In glorious Disert Bethech.[27] + + Disert Bethech, where dwelt the man + Whom hosts of angels were wont to visit; + A pious cloister behind a circle of crosses, + Where Angus son of Oivlen used to be. + + Angus from the assembly of Heaven, + Here are his tomb and his grave: + 'Tis hence he went to death, + On a Friday, to holy Heaven. + + 'Tis in Clonenagh he was reared, + In Clonenagh he was buried: + In Clonenagh of many crosses + He first read his psalms. + + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 27: 'Beechen Hermitage.'] + + + + +COLUM CILLE THE SCRIBE + + + My hand is weary with writing, + My sharp quill is not steady, + My slender-beaked pen juts forth + A black draught of shining dark-blue ink. + + A stream of the wisdom of blessed God + Springs from my fair-brown shapely hand: + On the page it squirts its draught + Of ink of the green-skinned holly. + + My little dripping pen travels + Across the plain of shining books, + Without ceasing for the wealth of the great-- + Whence my hand is weary with writing. + + + + +THE LAMENT OF THE OLD WOMAN OF BEARE + + + The reason why she was called the Old Woman of Beare was + that she had fifty foster-children in Beare. She had seven + periods of youth one after another, so that every man who + had lived with her came to die of old age, and her grandsons + and great-grandsons were tribes and races. For a hundred + years she wore the veil which Cummin had blessed upon her + head. Thereupon old age and infirmity came to her. 'Tis then + she said: + + Ebb-tide to me as of the sea! + Old age causes me reproach. + Though I may grieve thereat-- + Happiness comes out of fat. + + I am the Old Woman of Beare, + An ever-new smock I used to wear: + To-day--such is my mean estate-- + I wear not even a cast-off smock. + + It is riches + Ye love, it is not men: + In the time when _we_ lived + It was men we loved. + + Swift chariots, + And steeds that carried off the prize,-- + Their day of plenty has been, + A blessing on the King who lent them! + + My body with bitterness has dropt + Towards the abode we know: + When the Son of God deems it time + Let Him come to deliver His behest. + + My arms when they are seen + Are bony and thin: + Once they would fondle, + They would be round glorious kings. + + When my arms are seen, + And they bony and thin, + They are not fit, I declare, + To be uplifted over comely youths. + + The maidens rejoice + When May-day comes to them: + For me sorrow is meeter, + For I am wretched, I am an old hag. + + I hold no sweet converse, + No wethers are killed for my wedding-feast, + My hair is all but grey, + The mean veil over it is no pity. + + I do not deem it ill + That a white veil should be on my head: + Time was when many cloths of every hue + Bedecked my head as we drank the good ale. + + The Stone of the Kings on Femen, + The Chair of Ronan in Bregon, + 'Tis long since storms have reached them. + The slabs of their tombs are old and decayed. + + The wave of the great sea talks aloud, + Winter has arisen: + Fermuid the son of Mugh to-day + I do not expect on a visit. + + I know what they are doing: + They row and row across + The reeds of the Ford of Alma-- + Cold is the dwelling where they sleep. + + 'Tis 'O my God!' + To me to-day, whatever will come of it. + I must take my garment even in the sun:[28] + The time is at hand that shall renew me. + + Youth's summer in which we were + I have spent with its autumn: + Winter-age which overwhelms all men, + To me has come its beginning. + + Amen! Woe is me! + Every acorn has to drop. + After feasting by shining candles + To be in the gloom of a prayer-house! + + I had my day with kings + Drinking mead and wine: + To-day I drink whey-water + Among shrivelled old hags. + + I see upon my cloak the hair of old age, + My reason has beguiled me: + Grey is the hair that grows through my skin-- + 'Tis thus I am an old hag. + + The flood-wave + And the second ebb-tide-- + They have all reached me, + So that I know them well. + + The flood-wave + Will not reach the silence of my kitchen: + Though many are my company in darkness, + A hand has been laid upon them all. + + O happy the isle of the great sea + Which the flood reaches after the ebb! + As for me, I do not expect + Flood after ebb to come to me. + + There is scarce a little place to-day + That I can recognise: + What was on flood + Is all on ebb. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 28: 'Je tremble a present dedans la canicule.'--Moliere, +_Sganarelle_, scene 2.] + + + + +THE DESERTED HOME + + + Sadly talks the blackbird here. + Well I know the woe he found: + No matter who cut down his nest, + For its young it was destroyed. + + I myself not long ago + Found the woe he now has found. + Well I read thy song, O bird, + For the ruin of thy home. + + Thy heart, O blackbird, burnt within + At the deed of reckless man: + Thy nest bereft of young and egg + The cowherd deems a trifling tale. + + At thy clear notes they used to come, + Thy new-fledged children, from afar; + No bird now comes from out thy house, + Across its edge the nettle grows. + + They murdered them, the cowherd lads, + All thy children in one day: + One the fate to me and thee, + My own children live no more. + + There was feeding by thy side + Thy mate, a bird from o'er the sea: + Then the snare entangled her, + At the cowherds' hands she died. + + O Thou, the Shaper of the world! + Uneven hands Thou layst on us: + Our fellows at our side are spared, + Their wives and children are alive. + + A fairy host came as a blast + To bring destruction to our house: + Though bloodless was their taking off, + Yet dire as slaughter by the sword. + + Woe for our wife, woe for our young! + The sadness of our grief is great: + No trace of them within, without-- + And therefore is my heart so sad. + + + + +CORMAC MAC CULENNAIN SANG THIS + + + Shall I launch my dusky little coracle + On the broad-bosomed glorious ocean? + Shall I go, O King of bright Heaven, + Of my own will upon the brine? + + Whether it be roomy or narrow, + Whether it be served by crowds of hosts-- + O God, wilt Thou stand by me + When it comes upon the angry sea? + + + + +ALEXANDER THE GREAT + + + Four men stood by the grave of a man, + The grave of Alexander the Proud; + They sang words without falsehood + Over the prince from fair Greece. + + Said the first man of them: + 'Yesterday there were around the king + The men of the world--a sad gathering! + Though to-day he is alone.' + + 'Yesterday the king of the brown world + Rode upon the heavy earth: + Though to-day it is the earth + That rides upon his neck.' + + 'Yesterday,' said the third wise author, + 'Philip's son owned the whole world: + To-day he has nought + Save seven feet of earth.' + + 'Alexander the liberal and great + Was wont to bestow silver and gold: + To-day,' said the fourth man, + 'The gold is here, and it is nought.' + + Thus truly spoke the wise men + Around the grave of the high-king: + It was not foolish women's talk + What those four sang. + + + + +QUATRAINS + + + + +THE SCRIBE + + + A hedge of trees surrounds me, + A blackbird's lay sings to me; + Above my lined booklet + The trilling birds chant to me. + + In a grey mantle from the top of bushes + The cuckoo sings: + Verily--may the Lord shield me!-- + Well do I write under the greenwood. + + + + +ON A DEAD SCHOLAR + + + Dead is Lon + Of Kilgarrow, O great hurt! + To Ireland and beyond her border + It is ruin of study and of schools. + + + + +THE CRUCIFIXION + + + At the cry of the first bird + They began to crucify Thee, O cheek like a swan! + It were not right ever to cease lamenting-- + It was like the parting of day from night. + + Ah! though sore the suffering + Put upon the body of Mary's Son-- + Sorer to Him was the grief + That was upon her for His sake. + + + + +THE PILGRIM AT ROME + + + To go to Rome + Is much of trouble, little of profit: + The King whom thou seekest here, + Unless thou bring Him with thee, thou wilt not find. + + + + +HOSPITALITY + + + O King of stars! + Whether my house be dark or bright, + Never shall it be closed against any one, + Lest Christ close His house against me. + + If there be a guest in your house + And you conceal aught from him, + 'Tis not the guest that will be without it, + But Jesus, Mary's Son. + + + + +THE BLACKBIRD + + + Ah, blackbird, thou art satisfied + Where thy nest is in the bush: + Hermit that clinkest no bell, + Sweet, soft, peaceful is thy note. + + + + +MOLING SANG THIS + + + When I am among my elders + I am proof that sport is forbidden: + When I am among the mad young folk + They think that I am their junior. + + + + +THE CHURCH BELL IN THE NIGHT + + + Sweet little bell + That is struck[29] in the windy night, + I liefer go to a tryst with thee + Than to a tryst with a foolish woman. + + + + +THE VIKING TERROR + + + Bitter is the wind to-night, + It tosses the ocean's white hair: + To-night I fear not the fierce warriors of Norway + Coursing on the Irish Sea. + + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 29: The tongueless Irish bells were struck, not rung.] + + + + +FROM THE TRIADS OF IRELAND + + +Three slender things that best support the world: the slender stream of +milk from the cow's dug into the pail; the slender blade of green corn +upon the ground; the slender thread over the hand of a skilled woman. + +The three worst welcomes: a handicraft in the same house with the inmates; +scalding water upon your feet; salt food without a drink. + +Three rejoicings followed by sorrow: a wooer's, a thief's, a +tale-bearer's. + +Three rude ones of the world: a youngster mocking an old man; a robust +person mocking an invalid; a wise man mocking a fool. + +Three fair things that hide ugliness: good manners in the ill-favoured; +skill in a serf; wisdom in the misshapen. + +Three sparks that kindle love: a face, demeanour, speech. + +Three glories of a gathering: a beautiful wife, a good horse, a swift +hound. + +Three fewnesses that are better than plenty: a fewness of fine words; a +fewness of cows in grass; a fewness of friends around good ale. + +Three ruins of a tribe: a lying chief, a false judge, a lustful priest. + +Three laughing-stocks of the world: an angry man, a jealous man, a +niggard. + +Three signs of ill-breeding: a long visit, staring, constant questioning. + +Three signs of a fop: the track of his comb in his hair; the track of his +teeth in his food; the track of his stick behind him. + +Three idiots of a bad guest-house: an old hag with a chronic cough; a +brainless tartar of a girl; a hobgoblin of a gillie. + +Three things that constitute a physician: a complete cure; leaving no +blemish behind; a painless examination. + +Three things betokening trouble: holding plough-land in common; performing +feats together; alliance in marriage. + +Three nurses of theft: a wood, a cloak, night. + +Three false sisters: 'perhaps,' 'may be,' 'I dare say.' + +Three timid brothers: 'hush!' 'stop!' 'listen!' + +Three sounds of increase: the lowing of a cow in milk; the din of a +smithy; the swish of a plough. + +Three steadinesses of good womanhood: keeping a steady tongue; a steady +chastity; a steady housewifery. + +Three excellences of dress: elegance, comfort, lastingness. + +Three candles that illume every darkness: truth, nature, knowledge. + +Three keys that unlock thoughts: drunkenness, trustfulness, love. + +Three youthful sisters: desire, beauty, generosity. + +Three aged sisters: groaning, chastity, ugliness. + +Three nurses of high spirits: pride, wooing, drunkenness. + +Three coffers whose depth is not known: the coffers of a chieftain, of the +Church, of a privileged poet. + +Three things that ruin wisdom: ignorance, inaccurate knowledge, +forgetfulness. + +Three things that are best for a chief: justice, peace, an army. + +Three things that are worst for a chief: sloth, treachery, evil counsel. + +Three services, the worst that a man can serve: serving a bad woman, a bad +lord, and bad land. + +Three lawful handbreadths: a handbreadth between shoes and hose, between +ear and hair, and between the fringe of the tunic and the knee. + +Three angry sisters: blasphemy, strife, foul-mouthedness. + +Three disrespectful sisters: importunity, frivolity, flightiness. + +Three signs of a bad man: bitterness, hatred, cowardice. + + + + +FROM THE INSTRUCTIONS OF KING CORMAC + + +'O Cormac, grandson of Conn,' said Carbery, 'what are the dues of a chief +and of an ale-house?' + +'Not hard to tell,' said Cormac. + + 'Good behaviour around a good chief, + Lights to lamps, + Exerting oneself for the company, + A proper settlement of seats, + Liberality of dispensers, + A nimble hand at distributing, + Attentive service, + Music in moderation, + Short story-telling, + A joyous countenance, + Welcome to guests, + Silence during recitals, + Harmonious choruses.' + +'O Cormac, grandson of Conn,' said Carbery, 'what were your habits when +you were a lad?' + +'Not hard to tell,' said Cormac. + + 'I was a listener in woods, + I was a gazer at stars, + I was blind where secrets were concerned, + I was silent in a wilderness, + I was talkative among many, + I was mild in the mead-hall, + I was stern in battle, + I was gentle towards allies, + I was a physician of the sick, + I was weak towards the feeble, + I was strong towards the powerful, + I was not close lest I should be burdensome, + I was not arrogant though I was wise, + I was not given to promising though I was strong, + I was not venturesome though I was swift, + I did not deride the old though I was young, + I was not boastful though I was a good fighter, + I would not speak about any one in his absence, + I would not reproach, but I would praise, + I would not ask, but I would give,-- + +for it is through these habits that the young become old and kingly +warriors.' + +'O Cormac, grandson of Conn,' said Carbery, 'what is the worst thing you +have seen?' + +'Not hard to tell,' said Cormac. 'Faces of foes in the rout of battle.' + +'O Cormac, grandson of Conn,' said Carbery, 'what is the sweetest thing +you have heard?' + +'Not hard to tell,' said Cormac. + + 'The shout of triumph after victory, + Praise after wages, + A lady's invitation to her pillow.' + +'O Cormac, grandson of Conn,' said Carbery, 'how do you distinguish +women?' + +'Not hard to tell,' said Cormac. 'I distinguish them, but I make no +difference among them. + + 'They are crabbed as constant companions, + haughty when visited, + lewd when neglected, + silly counsellors, + greedy of increase; + they have tell-tale faces, + they are quarrelsome in company, + steadfast in hate, + forgetful of love, + anxious for alliance, + accustomed to slander, + stubborn in a quarrel, + not to be trusted with a secret, + ever intent on pilfering, + boisterous in their jealousy, + ever ready for an excuse, + on the pursuit of folly, + slanderers of worth, + scamping their work, + stiff when paying a visit, + disdainful of good men, + gloomy and stubborn, + viragoes in strife, + sorrowful in an ale-house, + tearful during music, + lustful in bed, + arrogant and disingenuous, + abettors of strife, + niggardly with food, + rejecting wisdom, + eager to make appointments, + sulky on a journey, + troublesome bedfellows, + deaf to instruction, + blind to good advice, + fatuous in society, + craving for delicacies, + chary in their presents, + languid when solicited, + exceeding all bounds in keeping others waiting, + tedious talkers, + close practitioners, + dumb on useful matters, + eloquent on trifles. + Happy he who does not yield to them! + They should be dreaded like fire, + they should be feared like wild beasts. + Woe to him who humours them! + Better to beware of them than to trust them, + better to trample upon them than to fondle them, + better to crush them than to cherish them. + They are waves that drown you, + they are fire that burns you, + they are two-edged weapons that cut you, + they are moths for tenacity, + they are serpents for cunning, + they are darkness in light, + they are bad among the good, + they are worse among the bad.' + +'O Cormac, grandson of Conn,' said Carbery, 'what is the worst for the +body of man?' + +'Not hard to tell,' said Cormac. 'Sitting too long, lying too long, long +standing, lifting heavy things, exerting oneself beyond one's strength, +running too much, leaping too much, frequent falls, sleeping with one's +leg over the bed-rail, gazing at glowing embers, wax, biestings, new ale, +bull-flesh, curdles, dry food, bog-water, rising too early, cold, sun, +hunger, drinking too much, eating too much, sleeping too much, sinning too +much, grief, running up a height, shouting against the wind, drying +oneself by a fire, summer-dew, winter-dew, beating ashes, swimming on a +full stomach, sleeping on one's back, foolish romping.' + +'O Cormac, grandson of Conn,' said Carbery, 'what is the worst pleading +and arguing?' + +'Not hard to tell,' said Cormac. + + 'Contending against knowledge, + contending without proofs, + taking refuge in bad language, + a stiff delivery, + a muttering speech, + hair-splitting, + uncertain proofs, + despising books, + turning against custom, + shifting one's pleading, + inciting the mob, + blowing one's own trumpet, + shouting at the top of one's voice.' + +'O Cormac, grandson of Conn,' said Carbery, 'who are the worst for whom +you have a comparison?' + +'Not hard to tell,' said Cormac. + + 'A man with the impudence of a satirist, + with the pugnacity of a slave-woman, + with the carelessness of a dog, + with the conscience of a hound, + with a robber's hand, + with a bull's strength, + with the dignity of a judge, + with keen ingenious wisdom, + with the speech of a stately man, + with the memory of an historian, + with the behaviour of an abbot, + with the swearing of a horse-thief, + +and he wise, lying, grey-haired, violent, swearing, garrulous, when he +says "the matter is settled, I swear, you shall swear."' + +'O Cormac, grandson of Conn,' said Carbery, 'I desire to know how I shall +behave among the wise and the foolish, among friends and strangers, among +the old and the young, among the innocent and the wicked.' + +'Not hard to tell,' said Cormac. + + 'Be not too wise, nor too foolish, + be not too conceited, nor too diffident, + be not too haughty, nor too humble, + be not too talkative, nor too silent, + be not too hard, nor too feeble. + + If you be too wise, one will expect too much of you; + if you be too foolish, you will be deceived; + if you be too conceited, you will be thought vexatious; + if you be too humble, you will be without honour; + if you be too talkative, you will not be heeded; + if you be too silent, you will not be regarded; + if you be too hard, you will be broken; + if you be too feeble, you will be crushed.' + + + + +NOTES + + +'The Isles of the Happy' and 'The Sea-god's Address to Bran' are poems +interspersed in the prose tale called 'The Voyage of Bran son of Febal to +the Land of the Living.' For text and translation see my edition (London: +D. Nutt, 1895), pp. 4 and 16. The tale was probably first written down +early in the eighth, perhaps late in the seventh century. + +'The Tryst after Death' (_Reicne Fothaid Canainne_) belongs to the ninth +century. For the original text and translation see my 'Fianaigecht, a +collection of hitherto inedited Irish poems and tales relating to Finn and +his Fiana' (Dublin: Hodges, Figgis and Co., 1910), p. 10 ff. + +'Deirdre's Farewell to Scotland' and 'Deirdre's Lament' are taken from the +well-known tale called 'The Death of the Children of Usnech.' The text +which is here rendered is that of the Middle-Irish version edited and +translated by Whitley Stokes (_Irische Texte_, ii., Leipzig, 1884), pp. +127 and 145. My rendering follows in the main that of Stokes. + +'The Hosts of Faery.'--From the tale called 'Laegaire mac Crimthainn's +Visit to the Fairy Realm of Mag Mell,' the oldest copy of which is found +in the Book of Leinster, a MS. of the twelfth century, p. 275 _b_. See +S.H. O'Grady's _Silva Gadelica_ (Williams and Norgate, 1892), vol. i. p. +256; vol. ii. p. 290, where, however, the verse is not translated. + +The two poems from the 'Vision of MacConglinne' are taken from my +translation of the twelfth-century burlesque so called (D. Nutt, 1892), +pp. 34 and 78. + +'A Dirge for King Niall of the Nine Hostages.'--Text and translation in +_Festschrift fuer Whitley Stokes_ (Harrassowitz, Leipzig, 1900), p. 1 ff., +and in the _Gaelic Journal_, x.p. 578 ff. Late eighth or early ninth +century. + +'The Song of Carroll's Sword.'--Edited and translated in _Revue Celtique_, +xx. p. 7 ff., and again in the _Gaelic Journal_, x.p. 613. Dallan mac +More, to whom the poem is ascribed, was chief bard to King Carroll +(Cerball) mac Muiregan of Leinster, who reigned from about A.D. 885 to +909. + +'Eochaid's Lament.'--Text published in _Archiv fuer celtische +Lexikographie_ (Niemeyer, Halle a. S., 1907), vol. iii. p. 304. + +'Lament on King Malachy II.'--_Ibid._, p. 305. + +'King and Hermit.'--First published and translated by me under that title +with Messrs. D. Nutt, 1901. The language is that of the tenth century. + +'Song of the Sea.'--Text and translation in _Otia Merseiana_ (the +publication of the Arts Faculty, University College, Liverpool), vol. ii. +p. 76 ff. Though the poem is ascribed to the celebrated poet Rumann, who +died in 748, its language points to the eleventh century. + +'Summer has come.'--Text and translation in my _Four Songs of Summer and +Winter_ (D. Nutt, 1903), p. 20 ff. The piece probably dates from the tenth +century. + +'Song of Summer.'--_Ibid._, p. 8 ff., and _Eriu_, the Journal of the +School of Irish Learning, i. p. 186. The date is the ninth century, I +think. + +'Summer is gone.'--_Ibid._, p. 14. Ninth century. + +'A Song of Winter.'--From the story called 'The Hiding of the Hill of +Howth,' first printed and translated by me in _Revue Celtique_, xi. p. 125 +ff. Probably tenth century. + +'Arran.'--Taken from the thirteenth-century prose tale called _Agallamh na +Senorach_, edited and translated by S.H. O'Grady in _Silva Gadelica_. The +poem refers to the island in the Firth of Clyde. + +'The Song of Crede, daughter of Guare.'--See text and translation in +_Eriu_, ii. p. 15 ff. Probably tenth century. + +'Liadin and Curithir.'--First published and translated by me under that +title with Messrs. D. Nutt, 1902. It belongs to the ninth century. + +'The Deer's Cry.'--For the text and translation see Stokes and Strachan, +_Thesaurus Palaeohibernicus_ (University Press, Cambridge), vol. ii. p. +354. I have adopted the translation there given except in some details. +The hymn in the form in which it has come down to us cannot be earlier +than the eighth century. + +'An Evening Song.'--Printed in my _Selections from Old-Irish Poetry_, p. +1. Though ascribed to Patrick, the piece cannot be older than the tenth +century. + +'Patrick's Blessing on Munster.'--Taken from the _Tripartite Life of +Patrick_, edited by Whitley Stokes (Rolls Series, London, 1887), p. 216. +Not earlier than the ninth century. + +'The Hermit's Song.'--See _Eriu_, vol. i. p. 39, where the Irish text will +be found. The poem dates from the ninth century. + +'A Prayer to the Virgin.'--See Strachan's edition of the original in +_Eriu_, i. p. 122. There is another copy in the Bodleian MS. Laud 615, p. +91, from which I have taken some better readings. The poem is hardly +earlier than the tenth century. + +'Eve's Lament.'--See _Eriu_, iii. p. 148. The date is probably the late +tenth or early eleventh century. + +'On the Flightiness of Thought.'--See _Eriu_, iii. p. 13. Tenth century. + +'To Crinog.'--The Irish text was published by me in the _Zeitschrift fuer +celtische Philologie_, vol. vi. p. 257. The date of the poem is the tenth +century. Crinog was evidently what is known in the literature of early +Christianity as [Greek: iagapete], _virgo subintroducta_ ([Greek: +syneisaktos]) or _conhospita_, _i.e._ a nun who lived with a priest, monk, +or hermit like a sister or 'spiritual wife' (_uxor spiritualis_). This +practice, which was early suppressed and abandoned everywhere else, seems +to have survived in the Irish Church till the tenth century. See on the +whole subject H. Achelis, _Virgines Subintroductae_, ein Beitrag zu i., +Kor. vii. (Leipzig, 1902). + +'The Devil's Tribute to Moling.'--For text and translation see Whitley +Stokes's _Goidelica_, 2nd ed., p. 180, and his edition of _Felire +Oingusso_, p. 154 ff. I have in the main followed Stokes's rendering. + +'Maelisu's Hymn to the Archangel Michael.'--Text and translation in the +_Gaelic Journal_, vol. iv. p. 56. Maelisu ua Brolchain was a writer of +religious poetry both in Irish and Latin, who died in 1056. + +'The Mothers' Lament at the Slaughter of the Innocents.'--See text and +translation in the _Gaelic Journal_, iv. p. 89. The piece probably belongs +to the eleventh century. + +'Colum Cille's Greeting to Ireland.'--From Reeves' edition of Adamnan's +_Life of St. Columba_, p. 285. The poem, like most of those ascribed to +this saint, is late, belonging probably to the twelfth century. + +'The Lament of the Old Woman of Beare.'--Text and translation in _Otia +Merseiana_, i. p. 119 ff. The language of the poem points to the late tenth +century. + +'The Deserted Home.'--See _Gaelic Journal_, iv. p. 42. Probably eleventh +century. + +'Colum Cille the Scribe.'--See _Gaelic Journal_, viii. p. 49. Probably +eleventh century. + +'The Monk and his Pet Cat.'--Text and translation in _Thesaurus +Palaeohibernicus_, ii. p. 293. I have made my own translation. The +language is that of the late eighth or early ninth century. + +'The Crucifixion.'--From _Leabhar Breac_, p. 262 _marg. sup._ and p. 168 +_marg. inf._ + +'Pilgrimage to Rome.'--See _Thes. Pal._, ii. p. 296. + +'On a Dead Scholar.'--From the notes to the _Felire Oingusso_, ed. Wh. +Stokes (Henry Bradshaw Society, vol. xxix.), p. 198. + +'Hospitality.'--From the Brussels MS., 5100-4, p. 5, and _Leabhar Breac_, +p. 93, _marg. sup._ + +'The Scribe.'--See _Thes. Pal._, ii. p. 290. + +'Moling sang this.'--From the notes to the _Felire Oingusso_, ed. Wh. +Stokes, p. 150. + +'The Church Bell.'--See _Irische Texte_, iii. p. 155. + +'The Blackbird.'--From _Leabhar Breac_, p. 36, _marg. sup._ + +The 'Triads of Ireland.' Edited and translated by me in the Todd Lecture +Series of the Royal Irish Academy, vol. xiii. (Hodges, Figgis and Co., +Dublin, 1906). The collection was made towards the end of the ninth +century. + +The 'Instructions of King Cormac.' Edited and translated by me in the Todd +Lecture Series, vol. xv. (Dublin, 1909). Early ninth century. + + + Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to His Majesty + at the Edinburgh University Press + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Ancient Irish Poetry, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANCIENT IRISH POETRY *** + +***** This file should be named 32030.txt or 32030.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/2/0/3/32030/ + +Produced by Bethanne M. 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