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diff --git a/6656-h/6656-h.htm b/6656-h/6656-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d5d2f41 --- /dev/null +++ b/6656-h/6656-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2440 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.0//EN"> +<HTML> +<HEAD> + <TITLE>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Kiltartan Poetry Book by Lady Gregory</TITLE> + <style type="text/css"> + <!-- + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { font-variant: small-caps; text-align: center } + h1 { margin-top: 2em } + h2 { margin-top: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 1.5em } + p.center { text-align: center } + --> + </style> +<META HTTP-EQUIV="Content-Type" CONTENT="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> +</HEAD> + +<BODY> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Kiltartan Poetry Book, by Lady Gregory + +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: The Kiltartan Poetry Book + +Author: Lady Gregory + +Posting Date: January 25, 2013 [EBook #6656] +Release Date: October, 2004 +First Posted: January 10, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE KILTARTAN POETRY BOOK *** + + + + +Produced by David Starner, Curtis A. Weyant, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + + +</pre> + + + +<h1 style="font-variant: small-caps">The Kiltartan Poetry Book</h1> + +<h2 style="font-variant: small-caps">Prose Translations from the Irish</h2> + +<p class="center" style="font-variant: small-caps">by</p> + +<h3 style="font-variant: small-caps">Lady Gregory</h3> + +<h1>Introduction</h1> + +<h2>I</h2> + +<p>If in my childhood I had been asked to give the name +of an Irish poem, I should certainly have said “Let +Erin remember the days of old,” or “Rich +and rare were the gems she wore”; for although +among the ornamental books that lay on the round drawingroom +table, the only one of Moore’s was <i>Lalla +Rookh</i>, some guest would now and then sing one +of his melodies at the piano; and I can remember vexing +or trying to vex my governess by triumphant mention +of Malachi’s collar of gold, she no doubt as +well as I believing the “proud invader” +it was torn from to have been, like herself, an English +one. A little later I came to know other verses, ballads + nearer to the tradition of the country than Moore’s +faint sentiment. For a romantic love of country had +awakened in me, perhaps through the wide beauty of +my home, from whose hillsides I could see the mountain +of Burren and Iar Connacht, and at sunset the silver +western sea; or it maybe through the half revealed +sympathy of my old nurse for the rebels whose cheering +she remembered when the French landed at Killala in +’98; or perhaps but through the natural breaking +of a younger child of the house from the conservatism +of her elders. So when we were taken sometimes as a +treat the five mile drive to our market town, Loughrea, +I would, on tiptoe at the counter, hold up the six +pence earned by saying without a mistake my Bible +lesson on the Sunday, and the old stationer, looking +down through his spectacles would give me what I wanted +saying that I was his best customer for Fenian books; +and one of my sisters, rather doubtfully consenting +to my choice of <i>The Spirit of the Nation</i> +for a birthday present, qualified the gift by copying +into it “Patriotism is the last refuge of a +scoundrel.” I have some of them by me yet, the +little books in gay paper or in green cloth, and some +verses in them seem to me no less moving than in those +early days, such as Davis’s lament.</p> + +<blockquote><p>We thought you would not die, we +were sure you<br> + would not go<br> +And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell’s<br> + cruel blow;<br> +Sheep without a shepherd when the snow shuts out<br> + the sky,<br> +O why did you leave us Owen? Why did you die?</p></blockquote> + +<p>And if some others are little more than a catalogue, +unmusical, as:—­</p> + +<blockquote><p>Now to begin to name them I’ll +continue in a direct<br> + line,<br> +There’s John Mitchell, Thomas Francis Meagher<br> + and also William Smith O’Brien;<br> +John Martin and O’Donoghue, Erin sorely feels<br> + their loss,<br> +And to complete their number I will include<br> + O’Donovan Ross—­</p></blockquote> + +<p>yet there is in them a certain dignity, an intensity + born of continuity of purpose; they are roughly hammered +links in a chain of unequal workmanship, but stretching +back through the centuries to the Munster poets of +the days of Elizabeth, advised by Spenser to harry +them out of Ireland. The names change from age to age, +that is all. The verses of the seventeenth century +hallow those of MacCarthys and Fitzgeralds who fought +for the Stuarts or “knocked obedience out of +the Gall”; the eighteenth ended with the rebels +of ’98; the nineteenth had Emmet and Mitchell +and its Manchester martyrs. Already in these early +days of the twentieth the street singers cry out:</p> + +<blockquote><p>Mac Dermott, Mallin, Hanrahan, Daly, +Colbert<br> + and Mac Bride<br> +All men who for our country’s cause have nobly<br> + bled and died.</p></blockquote> + +<p>Even Yeats, falling into the tradition, has put in +a lyric the names of some of those who died in Easter +week, and through whose death “a terrible beauty +is born.”</p> + +<h2>II</h2> + +<p>I am glad to remember that through the twelve years +of our married life, 1880-92, my husband and his people +were able to keep their liking and respect for each +other. For those were the years of the land war, tenant +struggling to gain a lasting possession for his children, +landlord to keep that which had been given in trust +to him for his; each ready in his anger to turn the +heritage of the other to desolation; while the vision +of some went yet farther, through breaking to the +rebuilding of a nation. The passion, the imagination +of Ireland were thrown into the fight. I often thought +to find some poem putting such passion into fiery +or memorable lines. But the first I thought worth +the keeping,—­I have it yet, was Katherine +Tynan’s lament for Parnell, written two years +after his death. In tearing it from the corner of +some newspaper I had unwittingly taken note of almost +the moment of a new impulse in literature, in poetry. +For with that death, the loss of that dominant personality, +and in the quarrel that followed, came the disbanding +of an army, the unloosing of forces, the setting free +of the imagination of Ireland.</p> + +<h2>III</h2> + +<p>Once in my childhood I had been eager to learn Irish; +I thought to get leave to take lessons from an old +Scripture-reader who spent a part of his time in the +parish of Killinane, teaching such scholars as he could +find to read their own language in the hope that they +might turn to the only book then being printed in +Irish, the Bible. But my asking, timid with the fear +of mockery, was unheeded. Yet I missed but by a little +an opportunity that might have made me a real Irish +scholar, and not as I am, imperfect, stumbling. For +a kinsman learned in the language, the translator +of the wonderful <i>Silva Gaedelica</i> had been +sometimes a guest in the house, and would still have +been welcomed there but that my mother, who had a +great dislike to the marriage of cousins had fancied +he was taking a liking to one of my elder sisters; +and with that suspicion the “winged nymph, Opportunity” + had passed from my reach. After my marriage I bought +a grammar and worked at it for a while with the help +of a gardener. But it was difficult and my teacher +was languid, suspecting it may be some hidden mockery, +for those were the days before Irish became the fashion. +It was not till a dozen or more years later, and after +my husband’s death, that my son, having won +the classical entrance scholarship at Harrow, took +a fancy to learn a nearer language, and rode over +to Tillyra before breakfast one morning to ask our +neighbour Edward Martyn to help him to a teacher. He +came back without what he had sought, but with the +gift of a fine old Irish Bible, which became a help +in our early lessons. For we set to work together, +and I found the task a light one in comparison with +those first attempts. For that young priest, Father +Eugene O’Growney, sent from Ireland to look +for health in California, had used the short space +of life left to him in writing simple lessons in Irish +grammar, that made at least the first steps easy. +And another thing had happened. Dr. Douglas Hyde, +<i>An Craoibhin,</i> had founded the Gaelic League, +and through it country people were gathered together + in the Irish speaking places to give the songs and +poems, old and new, kept in their memory. This discovery, +this disclosure of the folk learning, the folk poetry, +the ancient tradition, was the small beginning of +a weighty change. It was an upsetting of the table +of values, an astonishing excitement. The imagination + of Ireland had found a new homing place.</p> + +<h2>IV</h2> + +<p>My own imagination was aroused. I was becoming conscious +of a world close to me and that I had been ignorant +of. It was not now in the corners of newspapers I +looked for poetic emotion, nor even to the singers +in the streets. It was among farmers and potato diggers +and old men in workhouses and beggars at my own door +that I found what was beyond these and yet farther +beyond that drawingroom poet of my childhood in the +expression of love, and grief, and the pain of parting, +that are the disclosure of the individual soul.</p> + +<p>An Aran man, repeating to me <i>The Grief of a Girl’s +Heart</i> in Irish told me it was with that song +his mother had often sung him to sleep as a child. +It was from an old woman who had known Mary Hynes and +who said of her “The sun and the moon never shone +upon anything so handsome” that I first heard +Raftery’s song of praise of her, “The +pearl that was at Ballylee,” a song “that +has gone around the world & as far as America.” +It was in a stonecutter’s house where I went +to have a headstone made for Raftery’s grave +that I found a manuscript book of his poems, written +out in the clear beautiful Irish characters. It was +to a working farmer’s house I walked on many +a moonlit evening with the manuscript that his greater +knowledge helped me to understand and by his hearth +that I read for the first time the <i>Vision of +Death</i> and the <i>Lament for O’Daly.</i> +After that I met with many old people who had in the +days before the Famine seen or talked with the wandering +poet who was in the succession of those who had made +and recited their lyrics on the Irish roads before +Chaucer wrote.</p> + +<h2>V</h2> + +<p>And so I came by the road nearest me to the old legends, +the old heroic poems. It was a man of a hundred years +who told me the story of Cuchulain’s fight with +his own son, the son of Aoife, and how the young man +as he lay dying had reproached him and said “Did +you not see how I threw every spear fair and easy +at you, and you threw your spear hard and wicked at +me? And I did not come out to tell my name to one or +to two but if I had told it to anyone in the whole +world, I would soonest tell it to your pale face.” +Deirdre’s beauty “that brought the Sons +of Usnach to their death” comes into many of +the country songs. Grania of the yet earlier poems +is not so well thought of. An old basket-maker said +scornfully “Many would tell you she slept under +the cromlechs but I don’t believe that, and +she a king’s daughter. And I don’t believe +she was handsome, either. If she was, why would she +have run away?” And another said “Finn +had more wisdom than all the men of the world, but +he wasn’t wise enough to put a bar on Grania.” +I was told in many places of Osgar’s bravery +and Goll’s strength and Conan’s bitter +tongue, and the arguments of Oisin and Patrick. And +I have often been given the story of Oisin’s +journey to Tir-nan-Og, the Country of the Young, +that is, as I am told, “a fine place and everything +that is good is in it. And if anyone is sent there +for a minute he will want to stop in it, and twenty +years will seem to him like one half hour;” and +“they say Tir-nan-Og is there yet, and so it +may be in any place.”</p> + +<h2>VI</h2> + +<p>In the ancient times the poets told of this Country +of the Young, with its trees bearing fruit and blossom +at the one time; its golden apples that gave lasting +life; its armies “that go out in good order, +ahead of their beautiful king, marching among blue +spears scattering their enemies, an army with high +looks, rushing, avenging;” before news had come +to Ireland, of the Evangelist’s vision of the +Tree of Life and of the “white horse, and he +that sat on him had a bow, and a crown was given to +him, and he went forth conquering and to conquer.” +They had told of the place “where delight is +common, and music” before saintly Columcille +on the night of the Sabbath of rest “reached +to the troops of the archangels and the plain where +music has not to be born.” But in later days +religion, while offering abundant pictures of an after +world of punishment, “the flagstone of pain,” +“the cauldron that is boiling for ever,” +the fire the least flame of which is “bigger +than fifteen hundred of turf,” so that Oisin +listening to St. Patrick demands a familiar weapon, +an iron flail, to beat down such familiar terrors, +has left Heaven itself far off, mysterious, intangible, +without earthly similes or foreshadowings. I think +it is perhaps because of this that the country poets +of to-day and yesterday have put their dream, their +vision of the Delectable Mountains, of the Land of +Promise, into exaggerated praise of places dear to +them. Raftery sees something beyond the barren Mayo +bogs when he tells of that “fine place without +fog falling, a blessed place that the sun shines on, +and the wind does not rise there or anything of the +sort,” and where as he says in another poem +“logwood and mahogany” grow in company +“vith its wind twisted beech and storm bent +sycamore. Even my own home “sweet Coole demesne” +has been transfigured in songs of the neighbourhood; +and a while ago an old woman asking alms at the door +while speaking of a monastery near Athenry broke into +a chant of praise that has in it perhaps some memory +of the Well of Healing at the world’s end that +helped the gods to new strength in their great battle +at Moytura. “Three barrels there are with water, +and to see the first barrel boiling it is certain +you will get a cure. Water there does be rushing down; +you to stop you could hear it talking; to go there +you would get cured of anything unless it might be +the stroke of the Fool.”</p> + +<h2>VII</h2> + +<p>In translating these poems I have chosen to do so +in the speech of the thatched houses where I have +heard and gathered them. <i>An Craoibhin</i> +had already used this Gaelic construction, these Elizabethan +phrases, in translating the <i>Love Songs of Connacht</i>, +as I have used it even in my creative work. Synge had +not yet used it when he found in my <i>Cuchulain +of Muirthemne</i> “the dialect he had been +trying to master,” and of which he afterwards +made such splendid use. Most of the translations in +this book have already been printed in <i>Cuchulain +of Muirthemne</i>, <i>Gods and Fighting Men</i>, +<i>Saints and Wonders</i>, and <i>Poets and +Dreamers</i>. When in the first month of the new +year I began to choose from among them, it seemed +strange to me that the laments so far outnumbered any +songs of joy. But before that month was out news was +brought to me that made the keening of women for the +brave and of those who are left lonely after the young +seem to be but the natural outcome and expression +of human life.</p> + +<p><span style="font-variant: small-caps">Augusta Gregory</span>.<br> +<i>Coole</i>, May, 1918.</p> + + + +<h1>Contents</h1> + +<ul> + <li><a href="#1">The Grief of a Girl’s Heart</a></li> + <li><a href="#2">A Lament for Fair-Haired Donough that Was Hanged in Galway</a></li> + <li><a href="#3">Raftery’s Praise of Mary Hynes</a></li> + <li><a href="#4">His Lament for O’Daly</a></li> + <li><a href="#5">His Praise of the Little Hill and the Plains of Mayo</a></li> + <li><a href="#6">His Lament for O’Kelly</a></li> + <li><a href="#7">His Vision of Death</a></li> + <li><a href="#8">His Repentance</a></li> + <li><a href="#9">His Answer when Some Stranger Aske Who He Was</a></li> + <li><a href="#10">A Blessing on Patrick Sarsfield</a></li> + <li><a href="#11">An Aran Maid’s Wedding</a></li> + <li><a href="#12">A Poem Written in Time of Trouble by an Irish Priest Who Had Taken Orders in France</a></li> + <li><a href="#13">The Heart of the Wood</a></li> + <li><a href="#14">An Croaibhin Complain Because He Is a Poet</a></li> + <li><a href="#15">He Cries Out Against Love</a></li> + <li><a href="#16">He Meditates on the Life of a Rich Man</a></li> + <li><a href="#17">Forgaill’s Praise of Columcille</a></li> + <li><a href="#18">The Deer’s Cry</a></li> + <li><a href="#19">The Hymn of Molling’s Guest, the Man Full of Trouble</a></li> + <li><a href="#20">The Hag of Beare</a></li> + <li><a href="#21">The Seven Heavens</a></li> + <li><a href="#22">The Journey of the Sun</a></li> + <li><a href="#23">The Nature of the Stars</a></li> + <li><a href="#24">The Call to Bran</a></li> + <li><a href="#25">The Army of the Sidhe</a></li> + <li><a href="#26">Credhe’s Complaint at the Battle of the White Strand</a></li> + <li><a href="#27">A Sleepy Song that Grania Used to Be Singing Over Diarmuid the Time They Were Wandering and Hiding From Finn</a></li> + <li><a href="#28">Her Song to Rouse Him from Sleep</a></li> + <li><a href="#29">Her Lament for His Death</a></li> + <li><a href="#30">The Parting of Goll and His Wife</a></li> + <li><a href="#31">The Death of Osgar</a></li> + <li><a href="#32">Oisin’s Vision</a></li> + <li><a href="#33">His Praise of Finn</a></li> + <li><a href="#34">Oisin after the Fenians</a></li> + <li><a href="#35">The Foretelling of Cathbad the Druid at Deidre’s Birth</a></li> + <li><a href="#36">Deirdre’s Lament for the Sons of Usnach</a></li> + <li><a href="#37">Emer’s Lament for Cuchulain</a></li> +</ul> + +<h1>THE KILTARTAN POETRY BOOK</h1> + +<h2><a name="1">The Grief of a Girl’s Heart</a></h2> + +<p>O Donall og, if you go across the sea, bring myself +with you and do not forget it; and you will have +a sweetheart for fair days and market days, and the +daughter of the King of Greece beside you at night. +It is late last night the dog was speaking of you; +the snipe was speaking of you in her deep marsh. It +is you are the lonely bird through the woods; and +that you may be without a mate until you find me.</p> + +<p>You promised me, and you said a lie to me, that you +would be before me where the sheep are flocked; I +gave a whistle and three hundred cries to you, and +I found nothing there but a bleating lamb.</p> + +<p>You promised me a thing that was hard for you, a ship +of gold under a silver mast; twelve towns with a market +in all of them, and a fine white court by the side +of the sea.</p> + +<p>You promised me a thing that is not possible, that +you would give me gloves of the skin of a fish; that +you would give me shoes of the skin of a bird, and +a suit of the dearest silk in Ireland.</p> + +<p>O Donall og, it is I would be better to you than a +high, proud, spendthrift lady: I would milk the cow; +I would bring help to you; and if you were hard pressed, +I would strike a blow for you.</p> + +<p>O, ochone, and it’s not with hunger or with +wanting food, or drink, or sleep, that I am grow- +ing thin, and my life is shortened; but it is the +love of a young man has withered me away.</p> + +<p>It is early in the morning that I saw him coming, +going along the road on the back of a horse; he did +not come to me; he made nothing of me; and it is on +my way home that I cried my fill.</p> + +<p>When I go by myself to the Well of Loneliness, I sit +down and I go through my trouble; when I see the world +and do not see my boy, he that has an amber shade +in his hair.</p> + +<p>It was on that Sunday I gave my love to you; the Sunday +that is last before Easter Sunday. And myself on my +knees reading the Passion; and my two eyes giving +love to you for ever.</p> + +<p>O, aya! my mother, give myself to him; and give him +all that you have in the world; get out yourself to +ask for alms, and do not come back and forward looking +for me.</p> + +<p>My mother said to me not to be talking with you to-day, +or to-morrow, or on the Sunday; it was a bad time +she took for telling me that; it was shutting the +door after the house was robbed.</p> + +<p>My heart is as black as the blackness of the sloe, +or as the black coal that is on the smith’s +forge; or as the sole of a shoe left in white halls; +it was you put that darkness over my life.</p> + +<p>You have taken the east from me; you have taken the +west from me; you have taken what is before me and +what is behind me; you have taken the moon, you have +taken the sun from me; and my fear is great that you +have taken God from me!</p> + +<h2><a name="2">A Lament for Fair-Haired Donough that Was Hanged +in Galway</a></h2> + +<p>It was bound fast here you saw him, and wondered to +see him,<br> +Our fair-haired Donough, and he after being condemned;<br> +There was a little white cap on him in place of a +hat,<br> +And a hempen rope in the place of a neck-cloth.</p> + +<p>I am after walking here all through the night,<br> +Like a young lamb in a great flock of sheep;<br> +My breast open, my hair loosened out,<br> +And how did I find my brother but stretched before +me!</p> + +<p>The first place I cried my fill was at the top of +the lake;<br> +The second place was at the foot of the gallows;<br> +The third place was at the head of your dead body<br> +Among the Gall, and my own head as if cut in two.</p> + +<p>If you were with me in the place you had a right to +be,<br> +Down in Sligo or down in Ballinrobe,<br> +It is the gallows would be broken, it is the rope +would be cut<br> +And fair-haired Donough going home by the path.</p> + +<p>O fair-haired Donough, it is not the gallows was fit +for you;<br> +But to be going to the barn, to be threshing out the +straw;<br> +To be turning the plough to the right hand and to +the left,<br> +To be putting the red side of the soil uppermost.</p> + +<p>O fair-haired Donough, O dear brother,<br> +It is well I know who it was took you away from me;<br> +Drinking from the cup, putting a light to the pipe,<br> +And walking in the dew in the cover of the night.</p> + +<p>O Michael Malley, O scourge of misfortune!<br> +My brother was no calf of a vagabond cow;<br> +But a well-shaped boy on a height or a hillside,<br> +To knock a low pleasant sound out of a hurling-stick.</p> + +<p>And fair-haired Donough, is not that the pity,<br> +You that would carry well a spur or a boot;<br> +I would put clothes in the fashion on you from cloth +that would be<br> +     lasting;<br> +I would send you out like a gentleman’s son.</p> + +<p>O Michael Malley, may your sons never be in one another’s +company;<br> +May your daughters never ask a marriage portion of +you;<br> +The two ends of the table are empty, the house is +filled,<br> +And fair-haired Donough, my brother, is stretched +out.</p> + +<p>There is a marriage portion coming home for Donough,<br> +But it is not cattle or sheep or horses;<br> +But tobacco and pipes and white candles,<br> +And it will not be begrudged to them that will use +it.</p> + +<h2><a name="3">Raftery’s Praise of Mary Hynes</a></h2> + +<p>Going to Mass by the will of God, the day came wet +and the wind rose; I met Mary Hynes at the cross of +Kiltartan, and I fell in love with her there and then.</p> + +<p>I spoke to her kind and mannerly, as by report was +her own way; and she said “Raftery my mind is +easy; you may come to-day to Ballylee.”</p> + +<p>When I heard her offer I did not linger; when her +talk went to my heart my heart rose. We had only to +go across the three fields; we had daylight with us +to Ballylee.</p> + +<p>The table was laid with glasses and a quart measure; +she had fair hair and she sitting beside me; and she +said, “Drink, Raftery, and a hundred welcomes; +there is a strong cellar in Ballylee.”</p> + +<p>O star of light and O sun in harvest; O amber hair, +O my share of the world! Will you come with me on +the Sunday, till we agree together before all the +people?</p> + +<p>I would not begrudge you a song every Sunday evening; +punch on the table or wine if you would drink it. +But O King of Glory, dry the roads before me till +I find the way to Ballylee.</p> + +<p>There is sweet air on the side of the hill, when you +are looking down upon Ballylee; when you are walking +in the valley picking nuts and blackberries, there +is music of the birds in it and music of the Sidhe.</p> + +<p>What is the worth of greatness till you have the light +of the flower of the branch that is by your side? +There is no good to deny it or to try and hide it; +she is the sun in the heavens who wounded my heart.</p> + +<p>There was no part in Ireland I did not travel, from +the rivers to the tops of the mountains; to the edge +of Lough Greine whose mouth is hidden, and I saw no +beauty but was behind hers. Her hair was shining +and her brows were shining too; her face was like herself, +her mouth pleasant and sweet; She is the pride and +I give her the branch; she is the shining flower of +Ballylee.</p> + +<p>It is Mary Hynes, the calm and easy woman, has beauty +in her mind and in her face. If a hundred clerks were +gathered together, they could not write down a half +of her ways.</p> + +<h2><a name="4">His Lament for O’Daly</a></h2> + +<p>It was Thomas O’Daly that roused up young people +and scattered them, and since death played on him, +may God give him grace. The country is all sorrowful, +always talking, since their man of sport died that +would win the goal in all parts with his music. The +swans on the water are nine times blacker than a blackberry +since the man died from us that had pleasantness on +the top of his fingers. His two grey eyes were like +the dew of the morning that lies on the grass. And +since he was laid in the grave, the cold is getting +the upper hand.</p> + +<p>If you travel the five provinces, you would not find +his equal for countenance or behaviour, for his equal +never walked on land or grass. High King of Nature, +you who have all powers in yourself, he that wasn’t +narrow-hearted, give him shelter in heaven for it!</p> + +<p>He was the beautiful branch. In every quarter that +he ever knew he would scatter his fill and not gather. +He would spend the estate of the Dalys, their beer +and their wine. And that he may be sitting in the +chair of grace, in the middle of Paradise!</p> + +<p>A sorrowful story on death, it’s he is the ugly +chief that did treachery, that didn’t give him +credit, O strong God, for a little time.</p> + +<p>There are young women, and not without reason, sorry +and heart-broken and withered, since he was left at +the church. Their hair thrown down and hanging, turned +grey on their head.</p> + +<p>No flower in any garden, and the leaves of the trees +have leave to cry, and they falling on the ground. +There is no green flower on the tops of the tufts, +since there did a boarded coffin go on Daly.</p> + +<p>There is sorrow on the men of mirth, a clouding over +the day, and no trout swim in the river. Orpheus on +the harp, he lifted up everyone out of their habits; +and he that stole what Argus was watching the time +he took away Io; Apollo, as we read, gave them teaching, +and Daly was better than all these musicians.</p> + +<p>A hundred wouldn’t be able to put together his +actions and his deeds and his many good works. And +Raftery says this much for Daly, because he liked +him.</p> + +<h2><a name="5">His Praise of the Little Hill and the Plains +of Mayo</a></h2> + +<p>After the Christmas, with the help of Christ, I will +never stop if I am alive; I will go to the sharp-edged +little hill; for it is a fine place without fog falling; +a blessed place that the sun shines on, and the +wind doesn’t rise there or anything of the sort.</p> + +<p>And if you were a year there you would get no rest, +only sitting up at night and forever drinking. The +lamb and the sheep are there; the cow and the calf +are there, fine lands are there without heath and +without bog. Ploughing & seed-sowing in the right +month, plough and harrow prepared and ready; the rent +that is called for there, they have means to pay it. +There is oats and flax & large eared barley. There +are beautiful valleys with good growth in them and +hay. Rods grow there, and bushes and tufts, white +fields are there and respect for trees; shade and +shelter from wind and rain; priests and friars reading +their book; spending and getting is there, and nothing +scarce.</p> + +<p>I leave it in my will that my heart rises as the wind +rises, and as the fog scatters, when I think upon +Carra and the two towns below it, on the two-mile +bush and on the plains of Mayo. And if I were standing +in the middle of my people, age would go from me and +I would be young again.</p> + +<h2><a name="6">His Lament for O’Kelly</a></h2> + +<p>There’s no dew or grass on Cluan Leathan. The +cuckoo is not to be seen on the furze; the leaves +are withering and the trees complaining of the cold. +There is no sun or moon in the air or in the sky, or +no light in the stars coming down, with the stretching +of O’Kelly in the grave.</p> + +<p>My grief to tell it! he to be laid low; the man that +did not bring grief or trouble on any heart, that +would give help to those that were down.</p> + +<p>No light on the day like there was; the fruits not +growing; no children on the breast; there’s +no return in the grain; the plants don’t blossom +as they used since O’Kelly with the fair hair +went away; he that used to forgive us a great share +of the rent. Since the children of Usnach and Deirdre +went to the grave, and Cuchulain, who as the stories +tell us, would gain victory in every step he would +take; since he died, such a story never came of sorrow +or defeat; since the Gael were sold at Aughrim, and +since Owen Roe died, the Branch.</p> + +<h2><a name="7">His Vision of Death</a></h2> + +<p>I had a vision in my sleep last night between sleeping +and waking. A figure standing beside me, thin, miserable, +sad and sorrowful; the shadow of night upon his face, +the tracks of the tears down his cheeks. His ribs +were bending like the bottom of a riddle; his nose +thin that it would go through a cambric needle; his +shoulders hard and sharp that they would cut tobacco; +his head dark and bushy like the top of a hill; and +there is nothing I can liken his fingers to. His poor +bones without any kind of covering; a withered rod +in his hand, and he looking in my face. . . .</p> + +<p>Death is a robber who heaps together kings, high princes +and country lords; he brings with him the great, the +young, and the wise, gripping them by the throat before +all the people. Look at him who was yesterday swift +& strong, who would leap stone wall, ditch and gap. +Who was in the evening walking the street, and is +going under the clay on the morrow.</p> + +<p>It is a pity for him that is tempted with the temptations +of the world; and the store that will go with him +is so weak, and his lease of life no better if he +were to live for a thousand years than just as if he +had slipped over on a visit and back again.</p> + +<p>When you are going to lie down don’t be dumb. +Bare your knee and bruise the ground. Think of all +the deeds that you put by you, and that you are travelling +towards the meadow of the dead.</p> + +<h2><a name="8">His Repentance</a></h2> + +<p>O King who art in Heaven, I scream to Thee again and +aloud, for it is<br> +Thy grace I am hoping for.</p> + +<p>I am in age and my shape is withered; many a day I +have been going astray. When I was young my deeds +were evil; I delighted greatly in quarrels and rows. +I liked much better to be playing or drinking on a +Sunday morning than to be going to Mass. I was given +to great oaths, and I did not let lust or drunkenness +pass me by.</p> + +<p>The day has stolen away and I have not raised the +hedge, until the crop in which Thou didst take delight +is destroyed. I am a worthless stake in the corner +of a hedge, or I am like a boat that has lost its rudder, +that would be broken against a rock in the sea, and +that would be drowned in the cold waves.</p> + +<h2><a name="9">His Answer When Some Stranger Asked Who He Was</a></h2> + +<p>I am Raftery the poet, full of hope and love; my eyes +without light, my gentleness without misery. Going +west on my journey with the light of my heart; weak +and tired to the end of my road.</p> + +<p>I am now, and my back to a wall, playing music to +empty pockets.</p> + +<h2><a name="10">A Blessing on Patrick Sarsfield</a></h2> + +<p>O Patrick Sarsfield, health be to you, since you went +to France and your camps were loosened; making your +sighs along with the king, and you left poor Ireland +and the Gael defeated—­Och ochone! O Patrick +Sarsfield, it is a man with God you are; and blessed +is the earth you ever walked on. The blessing of the +bright sun and the moon upon you, since you took the +day from the hands of King William—­Och ochone!</p> + +<p>O Patrick Sarsfield, the prayer of every person with +you; my own prayer and the prayer of the Son of Mary +with you, since you took the narrow ford going through +Biorra, and since at Cuilenn O’Cuanac you won +Limerick—­Och ochone!</p> + +<p>I will go up on the mountain alone; and I will come +hither from it again. It is there I saw the camp of +the Gael, the poor troop thinned, not keeping with +one another—­Och ochone!</p> + +<p>My five hundred healths to you, halls of Limerick, +and to the beautiful troop was in our company; it +is bonefires we used to have and playing-cards, and +the word of God was often with us—­Och ochone!</p> + +<p>There were many soldiers glad and happy, that were +going the way through seven weeks; but now they are +stretched down in Aughrim—­Och ochone!</p> + +<p>They put the first breaking on us at the bridge of +the Boyne; the second breaking on the bridge of Slaine; +the third breaking in Aughrim of O’Kelly; and +O sweet Ireland, my five hundred healths to you—­Och +ochone!</p> + +<p>O’Kelly has manuring for his land, that is not +sand or dung, but ready soldiers doing bravery with +pikes, that were left in Aughrim stretched in ridges—­Och +ochone!</p> + +<p>Who is that beyond on the hill, Ben Edair? I a poor +soldier with King James. I was last year in arms and +in dress, but this year I am asking alms—­Och +ochone!</p> + +<h2><a name="11">An Aran Maid’s Wedding</a></h2> + +<p>I am widow and maid, and I very young; did you hear +my great grief, that my treasure was drowned? If I +had been in the boat that day, and my hand on the +rope, my word to you, O’Reilly, it is I would +have saved you sorrow.</p> + +<p>Do you remember the day the street was full of riders, +and of priests and brothers, and all talking of the +wedding feast? The fiddle was there in the middle, +and the harp answering to it; and twelve mannerly +women to bring my love to his bed.</p> + +<p>But you were of those three that went across to Kilcomin, +ferrying Father Peter, who was three-and-eighty years +old; if you came back within a month itself, I would +be well content; but is it not a pity I to be lonely, +and my first love in the waves?</p> + +<p>I would not begrudge you, O’Reilly, to be kinsman +to a king, white bright courts around you, and you +lying at your ease; a quiet, well-learned lady to +be settling out your pillow; but it is a great thing +you to die from me when I had given you my love entirely.</p> + +<p>It is no wonder a broken heart to be with your father +and your mother; the white-breasted mother that crooned +you, and you a baby; your wedded wife, O thousand +treasures, that never set out your bed; and the day +you went to Trabawn, how well it failed you to come +home.</p> + +<p>Your eyes are with the eels, and your lips with the +crabs; and your two white hands under the sharp rule +of the salmon. Five pounds I would give to him that +would find my true love. Ochone! it is you are a sharp +grief to young Mary ni-Curtain!</p> + +<h2><a name="12">A Poem Written in Time of Trouble by an Irish +Priest Who Had Taken Orders in France</a></h2> + +<p>  My thoughts, my grief! are without<br> +    strength<br> +  My spirit is journeying towards<br> +    death<br> +  My eyes are as a frozen sea<br> +  My tears my daily food;<br> +  There is nothing in life but only misery.<br> +  My poor heart is torn<br> +  And my thoughts are sharp wounds within +me,<br> +  Mourning the miserable state of Ireland.</p> + +<p>  Misfortune has come upon us all together<br> +  The poor, the rich, the weak and the strong<br> +  The great lord by whom hundreds were main-<br> +    tained<br> +  The powerful strong man, and the man that<br> +    holds the plough;<br> +  And the cross laid on the bare shoulder +of every<br> +    man.</p> + +<p>  Our feasts are without any voice of priests<br> +  And none at them but women lamenting<br> +  Tearing their hair with troubled minds<br> +  Keening miserably after the Fenians.</p> + +<p>  The pipes of our organs are broken<br> +  Our harps have lost their strings that +were<br> +    tuned<br> +  That might have made the great lamentations +of<br> +    Ireland.<br> +  Until the strong men come back across +the sea<br> +  There is no help for us but bitter crying,<br> +  Screams, and beating of hands, and calling +out.</p> + +<p>  I do not know of anything under the sky<br> +  That is friendly or favourable to the +Gael</p> + +<p>  But only the sea that our need brings +us to,<br> +  Or the wind that blows to the harbour<br> +  The ship that is bearing us away from +Ireland;<br> +  And there is reason that these are reconciled<br> +    with us,<br> +  For we increase the sea with our tears<br> +  And the wandering wind with our sighs.</p> + +<h2><a name="13">The Heart of the Wood</a></h2> + +<p>My hope and my love, we will go for a while into the +wood, scattering the dew, where we will see the trout, +we will see the blackbird on its nest; the deer and +the buck calling, the little bird that is sweetest +singing on the branches; the cuckoo on the top of the +fresh green; and death will never come near us for +ever in the sweet wood.</p> + +<h2><a name="14">An Craoibhin Complains Because He Is a Poet</a></h2> + +<p>  It’s my grief that I am not a little +white<br> +    duck,<br> +  And I’d swim over the sea to France +or<br> +    to Spain;<br> +  I would not stay in Ireland for one week +only,<br> +  To be without eating, without drinking, +without a full jug.</p> + +<p>  Without a full jug, without eating, without<br> +    drinking,<br> +  Without a feast to get, without wine, +without<br> +    meat,<br> +  Without high dances, without a big name,<br> +    without music;<br> +  There is hunger on me, and I astray this +long<br> +    time.</p> + +<p>  It’s my grief that I am not an old +crow,<br> +  I would sit for awhile up on the old branch,<br> +  I could satisfy my hunger, and I not as +I am<br> +  With a grain of oats or a white potato</p> + +<p>  It’s my grief that I am not a red +fox,<br> +  Leaping strong and swift on the mountains,<br> +  Eating cocks and hens without pity,<br> +  Taking ducks and geese as a conquerer.</p> + +<p>  It’s my grief that I am not a bright +salmon,<br> +  Going through the strong full water,<br> +  Catching the mayflies by my craft,<br> +  Swimming at my choice, and swimming with<br> +    the stream</p> + +<p>  It’s my grief that I am of the race +of the poets;<br> +  It would be better for me to be a high +rock,<br> +  Or a stone or a tree or an herb or a flower<br> +  Or anything at all but the thing that +I am!</p> + +<h2><a name="15">He Cries Out Against Love</a></h2> + +<p>  There are three fine devils eating my<br> +    heart—­<br> +  They left me, my grief! without a thing;<br> +  Sickness wrought, and Love wrought,<br> +  And an empty pocket, my ruin and my woe.<br> +  Poverty left me without a shirt,<br> +  Barefooted, barelegged, without any covering;<br> +  Sickness left me with my head weak<br> +  And my body miserable, an ugly thing.<br> +  Love left me like a coal upon the floor,<br> +  Like a half-burned sod that is never put +out.<br> +  Worse than the cough, worse than the fever<br> +    itself,<br> +  Worse than any curse at all under the +sun,<br> +  Worse than the great poverty<br> +  Is the devil that is called “Love” +by the people.<br> +  And if I were in my young youth again<br> +  I would not take, or give, or ask for +a kiss!</p> + +<h2><a name="16">He Meditates on the Life of a Rich Man</a></h2> + +<p>  A golden cradle under you, and you<br> +    young;<br> +  A right mother and a strong kiss.</p> + +<p>  A lively horse, and you a boy;<br> +  A school and learning and close companions.</p> + +<p>  A beautiful wife, and you a man;<br> +  A wide house and everything that is good.</p> + +<p>  A fine wife, children, substance;<br> +  Cattle, means, herds and flocks.</p> + +<p>  A place to sit, a place to lie down;<br> +  Plenty of food and plenty of drink.<br> +  After that, an old man among old men;<br> +  Respect on you and honour on you.</p> + +<p>  Head of the court, of the jury, of the +meeting,<br> +  And the counsellors not the worse for +having<br> +    you.</p> + +<p>  At the end of your days death, and then<br> +  Hiding away; the boards and the church.</p> + +<p>  What are you better after to-night<br> +  Than Ned the beggar or Seaghan the fool?</p> + +<h2><a name="17">Forgaill’s Praise of Columcille</a></h2> + +<p>This now is the poem of praise and of lamentation +that was made for +Columcille, Speckled Salmon of the Boyne, High Saint +of the Gael, by +Forgaill that was afterwards called Blind Forgaill, +Chief Poet of +Ireland:</p> + +<p>It is not a little story this is; it is not a story +about a fool it is; it is not one district that is +keening but every district, with a great sound that +is not to be borne, hearing the story of Columcille, +without life, without a church.</p> + +<p>It is not the trouble of one house, or the grief of +one harp-string; all the plains are heavy, hearing +the word that is a wound.</p> + +<p>What way will a simple man tell of him? Even Nera +from the Sidhe could not do it; he is not made much +of now; our learned one is not the light of our life, +now he is hidden away from us.</p> + +<p>He that used to keep us living is dead; he that was +our rightful head has died from us; he has died from +us that was God’s messenger.</p> + +<p>The knowledgeable man that used to put fear from us +is not here; the teller of words does not return to +us; the teacher is gone from us that taught silence +to the people.</p> + +<p>The whole world was his; it is a harp without its +strings; it is a church without its abbot.</p> + +<p>Colum rose very high the time God’s companies +rose to meet him; it is bright the angels were, attending +on him.</p> + +<p>It is short his life was, it is little used to satisfy +him; when the wind blew the sheet against him on the +sand, the shape of his ribs could be seen through +it. He was the head of every gathering; he was a dun +of the book of the law; he put a flame in the district +of the north, he lightened the district of the west; +the east was his along with it; he did not open his +heart to every company. Good his death; he went with +God’s angels that came to meet him.</p> + +<p>He has reached to Axal of his help and to the troops +of the archangels; he has reached to a place where +night is not seen; he has reached to a plain where +music has not to be born; where no one listens to +oppression. The King of priests has done away with +his troubles.</p> + +<p>He knew the way he was going; he gave kindness for +hatred; he learned psalms; he broke the battle against +hunger.</p> + +<p>He knew seasons and storms; he read the secrets of +the great wisdom; he knew the course of the moon; +he took notice of its race with the branching sun. +He was skilful in the course of the sea; to tell every +high thing we have heard from Colum, would be to count +the stars of heaven.</p> + +<p>A healer of the heart of the wise; a full satisfier +of guests; our crowned one who spoke with Axal; a +shelter to the naked; a comforter to the poor; he +was eager, he was noble, it is high his death was. +We hope great honour will be given to him on the head +of these deeds.</p> + +<p>And when Forgaill had made that lament he said, “It +is a great shaping and a great finish I have given +to these words, and I cannot make a praise beyond +this, for my eyes have been taken from me.”</p> + +<p>It was Aodh, King of Ireland gave seven cumhals for +his name to be given in the praising of Columcille; +and Aodh laid it down to Forgaill that this song should +be above every other song.</p> + +<p>But it was after death the reward and the praise were +given to blind Forgaill for it was Heaven that was +given to him as the price of the praising of the King.</p> + +<h2><a name="18">The Deer’s Cry</a></h2> + +<p>Blessed Patrick made this hymn one time he was going +to preach the Faith at Teamhuir, and his enemies lay +in hiding to make an attack on him as he passed. But +all they could see passing as he himself and Benen +his servant went by, was a wild deer and a fawn. +And the Deer’s Cry is the name of the hymn to +this day.</p> + +<p>I bind myself to-day to a strong strength, to a calling +on the Trinity. I believe in a Threeness with confession +of a Oneness in the Creator of the World.</p> + +<p>I bind myself to-day to the strength of Christ’s +birth and His baptism; to the strength of His crucifixion +with His burial; to the strength of His resurrection +with His ascension; In stability of earth, in steadfastness +of rock, I bind to myself to-day God’s strength +to pilot me;</p> + +<p>God’s power to uphold me; God’s wisdom +to guide me; God’s eye to look before me; God’s +ear to hear me;</p> + +<p>God’s word to speak for me; God’s hand +to guard me; God’s path to lie before me; God’s +shield to protect me; God’s host to save me;</p> + +<p>Against snares of demons; against the begging of sins; +against the asking of nature; against all my ill-wishers +near me and far from me; alone and in a crowd.</p> + +<p>So I have called on all these strengths to come between +me and every fierce and merciless strength that may +come between my body and my soul;</p> + +<p>Against incantations of false prophets; against black +laws of heathens; against false laws of heretics; +against craft of idolatry; against spells of women +& smiths and druids; against every knowledge forbidden +to the souls of men.</p> + +<p>Christ for my protection to-day against poison, against +burning, against drowning, against wounding; that +a multitude of rewards may come to me. Christ with +me, Christ before me; Christ behind me, Christ in +me; Christ under me, Christ over me; Christ to the +right of me, Christ to the left of me; Christ in lying +down, Christ in sitting, Christ in rising up;</p> + +<p>Christ in the heart of everyone that thinks of me; +Christ in the mouth of everyone that speaks to me; +Christ in every eye that sees me; Christ in every +ear that hears me.</p> + +<p>I bind to myself to-day a strong strength to a calling +upon the Trinity; I believe in a Threeness with confession +of a Oneness in the Creator of the World.</p> + +<h2><a name="19">The Hymn of Molling’s Guest, the Man Full +of Trouble</a></h2> + +<p>He is clean gold, he is Heaven about the sun, he is +a silver vessel having wine in it; he is an angel, +he is the wisdom of saints; everyone that is doing +the will of the King.</p> + +<p>He is a bird with a trap closing about him; he is +a broken ship in great danger; he is an empty vessel, +he is a withered tree; he that is not doing the will +of the King.</p> + +<p>He is a sweet-smelling branch with its blossoms; he +is a vessel that is full of honey; he is a shining +stone of good luck; he who does the will of the Son +of God of Heaven.</p> + +<p>He is a blind nut without profit; he is ill-smelling +rottenness, he is a withered tree; he is a wild apple +branch without blossom; he that is not doing the will +of the King.</p> + +<p>If he does the will of the Son of God of Heaven, he +is a bright sun with summer about it; he is the image +of the God of Heaven; he is a vessel of clear glass.</p> + +<p>He is a racehorse over a smooth plain, the man that +is striving for the kingdom of the great God; he is +a chariot that is seen under a king, that wins the +victory with golden bridles.</p> + +<p>He is a sun that warms high heaven; the king to whom +the great King is thankful; he is a church, joyful, +noble; he is a shrine having gold about it.</p> + +<p>He is an altar having wine poured upon it; having +many quires singing around; he is a clean chalice +with ale in it; he is bronze, white, shining, he is +gold.</p> + +<h2><a name="20">The Hag of Beare</a></h2> + +<p>It is of Corca Dubhne she was, and she had her youth +seven times over, and every man that had lived with +her died of old age, and her grandsons and great-grandsons +were tribes and races. And through a hundred years +she wore upon her head the veil Cuimire had blessed. +Then age and weakness came upon her and it is what +she said:</p> + +<p>Ebb-tide to me as to the sea; old age brings me reproach; +I used to wear a shift that was always new; to-day, +I have not even a cast one.</p> + +<p>It is riches you are loving, it is not men; it was +men we loved in the time we were living.</p> + +<p>There were dear men on whose plains we used to be +driving; it is good the time we passed with them; +it is little we were broken afterwards.</p> + +<p>When my arms are seen it is long and thin they are; +once they used to be fondling, they used to be around +great kings.</p> + +<p>The young girls give a welcome to Beltaine when it +comes to them; sorrow is more fitting for me; an old +pitiful hag.</p> + +<p>I have no pleasant talk; no sheep are killed for my +wedding; it is little but my hair is grey; it is many +colours I had over it when I used to be drinking good +ale.</p> + +<p>I have no envy against the old, but only against women; +I myself am spent with old age, while women’s +heads are still yellow.</p> + +<p>The stone of the kings on Feman; the chair of Ronan +in Bregia; it is long since storms have wrecked them, +they are old mouldering gravestones.</p> + +<p>The wave of the great sea is speaking; the winter +is striking us with it; I do not look to welcome to-day +Fermuid son of Mugh.</p> + +<p>I know what they are doing; they are rowing through +the reeds of the ford of Alma; it is cold is the place +where they sleep.</p> + +<p>The summer of youth where we were has been spent along +with its harvest; winter age that drowns everyone, +its beginning has come upon me.</p> + +<p>It is beautiful was my green cloak, my king liked +to see it on me; it is noble was the man that stirred +it, he put wool on it when it was bare.</p> + +<p>Amen, great is the pity; every acorn has to drop. +After feasting with shining candles, to be in the +darkness of a prayer-house.</p> + +<p>I was once living with kings, drinking mead and wine; +to-day I am drinking whey-water among withered old +women.</p> + +<p>There are three floods that come up to the dun of +Ard-Ruide: a flood of fighting-men, a flood of horses, +a flood of the hounds of Lugaidh’s son.</p> + +<p>The flood-wave and the two swift ebb-tides; what the +flood-wave brings you in, the ebb-wave sweeps out +of your hand.</p> + +<p>The flood-wave and the second ebb-tide; they have +all come as far as me, the way that I know them well.</p> + +<p>The flood-tide will not reach to the silence of my +kitchen; though many are my company in the darkness, +a hand has been laid upon them all.</p> + +<p>My flood-tide! It is well I have kept my knowledge. +It is Jesus Son of Mary keeps me happy at the ebb-tide.</p> + +<p>It is far is the island of the great sea where the +flood reaches after the ebb: I do not look for floods +to reach to me after the ebb-tide.</p> + +<p>There is hardly a little place I can know again when +I see it; what used to be on the flood-tide is all +on the ebb to-day!</p> + +<p><i>Some of the Wonders Told at the Great in the +East of the World by the Voice of Philip the Apostle, +that Was Like the Laughter of an Army, and With that +No Louder than the Talk of Friend in the Ear of Friend;</i></p> + +<h2><a name="21">I. The Seven Heavens</a></h2> + +<p>As to the Seven Heavens that are around the earth, +the first of them is the bright cloudy heaven that +is the nearest and that has shining out of it the +moon and the scattering of stars. Beyond that are +two flaming heavens, angels are in them and the +breaking loose of winds. Beyond those an ice-cold +heaven, bluer than any blue, seven times colder than +any snow, and it is out of that comes the shining of +the sun. Two heavens there are above that again, bright +like flame, and it is out of them shine the fiery +stars that put fruitfulness in the clouds and in the +sea. A high heaven, high and fiery, there is above +all the rest; highest of all it is, having within it +the rolling of the skies, and the labour of music, +and quires of angels. In the belts, now, of the seven +heavens are hidden the twelve shaking beasts that +have fiery heads upon their heavenly bodies and that +are blowing twelve winds about the world.</p> + +<p>In the same belts are sleeping the dragons with fiery +breath, tower-headed, blemished, that give out the +crash of the thunders and blow lightnings out of their +eyes.</p> + +<h2><a name="22">II.The Journey of the Sun</a></h2> + +<p>God made on the fourth day the two and seventy kinds +of the wandering stars of heaven, and the fiery course +of the sun that warms the world with the sense and +the splendour of angels.</p> + +<p>Twelve plains there are under the body of the earth +he lightens every night; the fiery sea laughs against +his journey; ranks of angels come together, welcoming +his visit after the brightness of the night. The first +place he brightens is the stream beyond the seas, with +news of the eastern waters. Then he lightens the ocean +of fire and the seas of sulphur-fire that are round +about the red countries.</p> + +<p>Then he shines upon the troops of boys in the pleasant +fields, who send out their cry to heaven through dread +of the beast that kills thousands of armies under +the waves of the south. Then he shines upon the mountains +that have streams of fire, on the hosts that protect +them in the plains. Then the ribs of the great beast +shine, and the four and twenty champions rise up in +the valley of pain. He shines over against the terrible +many-thronged fence in the north that has closed around +the people of hell. He shines on the dark valleys having +sorrowful streams over their faces. He brightens the +ribs of the beast that sends out the many seas around +the earth; that sucks in again the many seas till +the sands on every side are dry. He shines upon the +many beasts that sleep their sleep of tears in the +valley of flowers from the first beginning of the +world; and on the sorrowful tearful plain, with the +dragons that were set under the mist. He shines then +upon the bird-flocks singing their many tunes in +the flower-valleys; upon the shining plains with the +wine-flowers that lighten the valley; he shines at +the last against Adam’s Paradise till he rises +up in the morning from the east. There would be many +stories now for the sun to tell upon his journey, +if he had but a tongue to give them out.</p> + +<h2><a name="23">III. The Nature of the Stars</a></h2> + +<p>The stars now differ in their nature from one another. +As to the ten stars of Gaburn, trembling takes hold +of them, and fiery manes are put over their faces, +to foretell a plague or a death of the people. Other +stars there are that bring great heat or great cold +or great mists upon the earth, others there are that +run to encourage the dragons that blow lightnings +on the world; others of them run to the end of fifty +years and then ask their time for sleeping. To the +end of seven years they sleep till they awake at the +shout of the blessed angels, and the voices of the +dragons of the valley. Other runs through the six days +and the six nights till the coming of the Sunday; at +its beginning they begin their many kinds of music, +and they fall asleep again till the coming again from +heaven of God’s Sunday, and with that they follow +the same round.</p> + +<h2><a name="24">The Call to Bran</a></h2> + +<p>One time Bran, son of Febal, was out by himself near +his dun, and he heard music behind him. And it kept +always after him, and at last he fell asleep with +the sweetness of the sound. And when he awoke from +his sleep he saw beside him a branch of silver, and +it having white blossoms, and the whiteness of the +silver was the same as the whiteness of the blossoms. +And he brought the branch in his hand into the royal +house, and when all his people were with him they saw +a woman with strange clothing standing in the house. +And she began to make a song for Bran, and all the +people were looking at her and listening to her, and +it is what she said: I bring a branch of the apple-tree +from Emhain, from the far island around which are +the shining horses of the Son of Lir. A delight of +the eyes is the plain where the hosts hold their games: +curragh racing against chariot in the Silver-White +Plain to the south.</p> + +<p>There are feet of white bronze under it, shining through +life and time; a comely level land through the length +of the world’s age, and many blossoms falling +on it.</p> + +<p>There is an old tree there with blossoms, and birds +calling from among them; every colour is shining there. +Delight is common, and music in the Gentle Voiced +Plain, in the Silver Cloud Plain to the south. There +is nothing hard or rough, but sweet music striking +on the ear; keening is not used, or treachery, in +the tilled familiar land.</p> + +<p>To be without grief, without sorrow, without death, +without any sickness, without weakness; that is the +sign of Emhain; it is not a common wonder that is.</p> + +<p>There is nothing to liken its mists to, the sea washes +the wave against the land; brightness falls from its +hair.</p> + +<p>Golden chariots in the Plain of the Sea, rising up +to the sun with the tide; silver chariots and bronze +chariots on the Plain of Sports.</p> + +<p>It is a day of lasting weather, silver is dropping +on the land; a pure white cliff on the edge of the +sea, getting its warmth from the sun.</p> + +<p>The host race over the Plain of Sports; it is beautiful +and not weak their game is; death or the ebbing of +the tide will not come to them in the Many-coloured +Land.</p> + +<p>There will come at sunrise a fair man, lighting up +the level lands; he rides upon the plain that is beaten +by the waves, he stirs the sea till it is like blood. +An army will come over the clear sea, rowing to the +stone that is in sight, that has a hundred sounds of +music.</p> + +<p>It sings a song to the army; it is not sad through +the length of time; it increases music with hundreds +singing together; they do not look for death or the +ebb-tide.</p> + +<h2><a name="25">The Army of the Sidhe</a></h2> + +<p>Laegaire, son of the king of Connacht, was out one +day with the king his father near Loch na-n Ean, +the Lake of Birds, and the men of Connacht with them, +and they saw a man coming to them through the mist. +Long golden-yellow hair he had, and at his belt a gold-hilted +sword, and in his hand two five-barbed darts; a gold-rimmed +shield on his back, a five-folded crimson cloak about +his shoulders, and it is what he said:</p> + +<p>The most beautiful of plains is the Plain of the Two +Mists; it is not far from this; the men of its army +in good order go out ahead of their beautiful king; +they march among blue spears, white troops of fighters +with curled hair.</p> + +<p>They scatter the troops of their enemies, they destroy +every country they make an attack on; they are beautiful +in battle, a host with high looks, rushing, avenging.</p> + +<p>It is no wonder they to have such strength every one +of them is the son of a king and a queen; manes of +hair they have of the colour of gold.</p> + +<p>Their bodies smooth and comely; their eyes blue and +far-seeing; their teeth bright like crystal within +their thin red lips.</p> + +<p>White shields they have in their hands, with patterns +on them of white silver; blue shining swords, red +horns set with gold. They are good at killing men +in battle; good at song-making, good at chess-playing.</p> + +<p>The most beautiful of plains is the Plain of the Two +Mists; it is not far from this place.</p> + +<h2><a name="26">Credhe’s Complaint at the Battle of the +White Strand</a></h2> + +<p>And Credhe came to where her man was, and she keened +him and cried over him, and she made this complaint: +The Harbour roars, O the harbour roars over the rushing +race of the Headland of the Two Storms, the drowning +of the hero of the Lake of the Two Dogs, that is what +the waves are keening on the strand.</p> + +<p>Sweet-voiced is the crane, O sweet-voiced is the crane +in the marshes of the Ridge of the Two Strong Men; +it is she cannot save her nestlings, the wild dog +of two colours is taking her little ones.</p> + +<p>Pitiful the cry, pitiful the cry the thrush is making +in the Pleasant Ridge; sorrowful is the cry of the +blackbird in Leiter Laeig.</p> + +<p>Sorrowful the call, O sorrowful the call of the deer +in the Ridge of Two Lights; the doe is lying dead +in Druim Silenn, the mighty stag cries after her.</p> + +<p>Sorrowful to me, O sorrowful to me the death of the +hero that lay beside me; the son of the woman of the +Wood of the Two Thickets, to be with a bunch of grass +under his head.</p> + +<p>Sore to me, O sore to me Cael to be a dead man beside +me, the waves to have gone over his white body; it +is his pleasantness that has put my wits astray.</p> + +<p>A woeful shout, O a woeful shout the waves are making +on the strand; they that took hold of comely Cael, +a pity it is he went to meet them.</p> + +<p>A woeful crash, O a woeful crash the waves are making +on the strand to the north; breaking against the smooth +rock, crying after Cael now he is gone.</p> + +<p>A sorrowful fight, O a sorrowful fight, the sea is +making with the strand to the north; my beauty is +lessened; the end of my life is measured.</p> + +<p>A song of grief, O a song of grief is made by the +waves of Tulcha Leis; all I had is gone since this +story came to me. Since the son of Crimthann is drowned +I will love no one after him for ever; many a king +fell by his hand; his shield never cried out in the +battle.</p> + +<p>After she had made that complaint Credhe laid herself +down beside Cael and died for grief after him. And +they were put in the one grave, and it was Caoilte +raised the stone over them.</p> + +<h2><a name="27">A Sleepy Song that Grania Used to Be Singing +over Diarmuid the Time They Were Wandering and Hiding +from Finn</a></h2> + +<p>Sleep a little, a little little, for there is nothing +at all to fear, Diarmuid grandson of Duibhne; sleep +here soundly, Diarmuid to whom I have given my love. +It is I will keep watch for you, grandchild of shapely +Duibhne; sleep a little, a blessing on you, beside +the well of the strong field; my lamb from above the +lake, from the banks of the strong streams.</p> + +<p>Let your sleep be like the sleep in the North of fair +comely Fionnchadh of Ess Ruadh, the time he took Slaine +with bravery as we think, in spite of Failbhe of the +Hard Head.</p> + +<p>Let your sleep be like the sleep in the West of Aine +daughter of Galian, the time she went on a journey +in the night with Dubhthach from Dorinis, by the light +of torches.</p> + +<p>Let your sleep be like the sleep in the East of Deaghadh +the proud, the brave fighter, the time he took Coincheann, +daughter of Binn, in spite of fierce Decheall of Duibhreann.</p> + +<p>O heart of the valour of the world to the west of +Greece, my heart will go near to breaking if I do +not see you every day. The parting of us two will +be the parting of two children of the one house; it +will be the parting of life from the body, Diarmuid.</p> + +<h2><a name="28">Her Song to Rouse Him from Sleep</a></h2> + +<p>The stag to the east is not asleep, he does not stop +from bellowing; though he is in the woods of the blackbirds, +sleep is not in his mind; the hornless doe is not +asleep, crying after her speckled fawn; she is going +over the bushes, she does not sleep in her home.</p> + +<p>The cuckoo is not asleep, the thrush is not asleep, +the tops of the trees are a noisy place; the duck +is not asleep, she is made ready for good swimming; +the bog-lark is not asleep tonight on the high stormy +bogs; the sound of her clear voice is sweet; she is +not sleeping between the streams.</p> + +<h2><a name="29">Her Lament for His Death</a></h2> + +<p>Then when Grania was certain of Diarmuid’s death +she gave out a long very pitiful cry that was heard +through the whole place, and her women and her people +came to her, and asked what ailed her to give a cry +like that. And she told them how Diarmuid had come +to his death by the Boar of Beinn Gulbain in the hunt +Finn had made. When her people heard that, they gave +three great heavy cries in the same way, that were +heard in the clouds and the waste places of the sky. +And then Grania bade the five hundred that she had +for household to go to Beinn Gulbain for the body +of Diarmuid, and when they were bringing it back, she +went out to meet them, and they put down the body +of Diarmuid, and it is what she said: I am your wife, +beautiful Diarmuid, the man I would do no hurt to; +it is sorrowful I am after you to-night.</p> + +<p>I am looking at the hawk and the hound my secret love +used to be hunting with; she that loved the three, +let her be put in the grave with Diarmuid.</p> + +<p>Let us be glad to-night, let us make all welcome to-night, +let us be open-handed to-night, since we are sitting +by the body of a king.</p> + +<p>And O Diarmuid, she said, it is a hard bed Finn has +given you, to be lying on the stones and to be wet +with the rain. Ochone! she said, your blue eyes to +be without sight, you that were friendly and generous +and pursuing. O love! O Diarmuid! it is a pity it +is he sent you to your death.</p> + +<p>You were a champion of the men of Ireland, their prop +in the middle of the fight; you were the head of every +battle; your ways were glad and pleasant.</p> + +<p>It is sorrowful I am, without mirth, without light, +but only sadness and grief and long dying; your harp +used to be sweet to me, it wakened my heart to gladness. +Now my courage is fallen down, I not to hear you but +to be always remembering your ways. Och! my grief is +going through me.</p> + +<p>A thousand curses on the day when Grania gave you +her love, that put Finn of the princes from his wits; +it is a sorrowful story your death is to-day.</p> + +<p>You were the man was best of the Fenians, beautiful +Diarmuid, that women loved. It is dark your dwelling-place +is under the sod, it is mournful and cold your bed +is; it is pleasant your laugh was to-day; you were +my happiness, Diarmuid.</p> + +<h2><a name="30">The Parting of Goll and His Wife</a></h2> + +<p>And when Goll knew Finn to be watching for his life +he made no attempt to escape but stopped where he +was, without food, without drink, and he blinded with +the sand that was blowing into his eyes.</p> + +<p>And his wife came to a rock where she could speak +with him, and she called to him to come to her. “Come +over to me,” she said; “and it is a pity +you to be blinded where you are, on the rocks of the +waste sea, with no drink but the salt water, a man +that was first in every fight. And come now to be +sleeping beside me,” she said; “and in +place of the hard sea-water I will nourish you from +my own breast, and it is I will do your healing,” +she said; “for it is seven years since you wedded +with me, and from that night to this night I never +got a hard word from you. And the gold of your hair +is my desire for ever,” she said, “and +do not stop withering there like an herb in the winter-time, +and my heart black with grief within me.”</p> + +<p>But Goll would not leave the spot where he was for +all she could say. “It is best as it is,” +he said, “and I never took the advice of a woman +east or west, and I never will take it. And O sweet-voiced +queen,” he said, “what ails you to be +fretting after me; and remember now your silver and +your gold, and your silks and stuffs, and remember +the seven hounds I gave you at Cruadh Ceirrge, and +every one of them without slackness till he has killed +the deer. And do not be crying tears after me, queen +with the white hands,” he said; “but remember +your constant lover, Aodh, the son of the best woman +of the world, that came out from Spain asking for +you, and that I fought at Corcar-an-Deirg. And go to +him now,” he said, “for it is bad when +a woman is in want of a good man.”</p> + +<p>And he lay down on the rocks, and at the end of twelve +days he died. And his wife keened him there, and made +a great lamentation for her husband that had such +a great name, and that was the second best of the +Fenians of Ireland.</p> + +<h2><a name="31">The Death of Osgar</a></h2> + +<p>And after a while, at noonday, they saw Finn coming +towards them, and what was left of the Sun-banner +raised on a spear-shaft. All of them saluted Finn +then, but he made no answer, and he came up to the +hill where Osgar was. And when Osgar saw him coming +he saluted him, and he said, “I have got my +desire in death, Finn of the sharp arms.” And +Finn said, “It is worse the way you were, my +son, on the day of the battle at Ben Edair, when the +wild geese could swim on your breast, and it was my +hand that gave you healing.” “There can +no healing be done for me now for ever,” said +Osgar, “since the King of Ireland put the spear +of seven spells through my body.”</p> + +<p>And Finn said, “it is a pity it was not I myself +fell in sunny scarce Gabhra, and you going east and +west at the head of the Fenians.” “And +if it was yourself fell in the battle,” said +Osgar, “you would not hear me keening after +you; for no man ever knew any heart in me,” he +said, “but a heart of twisted horn, and it covered +with iron. But the howling of the dogs beside me,” +he said, “and the keening of the old fighting +men and the crying of the women one after another, +those are the things that are vexing me.” And +Finn said: “child of my child, calf of my calf, +white and slender, it is a pity the way you are. And +my heart is starting like a deer,” he said, +“and I am weak after you and after the Fenians +of Ireland. And misfortune has followed us,” +he said, “and farewell now to battles and to +a great name, and farewell to taking tributes; for +every good thing I ever had is gone from me now, " +he said. And when Osgar heard those words he stretched +out his hands, and his eyelids closed. And Finn turned +away from the rest, and he cried tears down; and he +never shed a tear through the whole length of his +lifetime but only for Osgar and for Bran.</p> + +<h2><a name="32">Oisin’s Vision</a></h2> + +<p>I saw the household of Finn; it was not the household +of a soft race; I had a vision of that man yesterday.</p> + +<p>I saw the household of the High King, he with the +brown sweet-voiced son; I never saw a better man.</p> + +<p>I saw the household of Finn; no one saw it as I saw +it; I saw Finn with the sword, Mac an Luin. Och! it +was sorrowful to see it.</p> + +<p>I cannot tell out every harm that is on my head; free +us from our trouble for ever; I have seen the household +of Finn.</p> + +<h2><a name="33">His Praise of Finn</a></h2> + +<p>It is a week from yesterday I last saw Finn; I never +saw a braver man. A king of heavy blows; my law, my +adviser, my sense and my wisdom, prince and poet, +braver than kings, King of the Fenians, brave in all +countries; golden salmon of the sea, clean hawk of +the air, rightly taught, avoiding lies; strong in +his doings, a right judge, ready in courage, a high +messenger in bravery and in music.</p> + +<p>His skin lime-white, his hair golden; ready to work, +gentle to women; his great green vessels full of rough +sharp wine. It is rich the king was, the head of his +people.</p> + +<p>Seven sides Finn’s house had, and seven score +shields on every side. Fifty fighting men he had about +him having woollen cloaks; ten bright drinking-cups +in his hall, ten blue vessels, ten golden horns.</p> + +<p>It is a good household Finn had, without grudging, +without lust, without vain boasting, without chattering, +without any slur on any one of the Fenians. Finn never +refused any man: he never put away any one that came +to his house. If the brown leaves falling in the woods +were gold, if the white waves were silver, Finn would +have given away the whole of it.</p> + +<h2><a name="34">Oisin after the Fenians</a></h2> + +<p>Now my strength is gone from me, I that was adviser +to the Fenians, my whole body is tired to-night, my +hands, my feet, and my head; tired, tired, tired.</p> + +<p>It is bad the way I am after Finn of the Fenians; +since he is gone away, every good is behind me.</p> + +<p>Without great people, without mannerly ways; it is +sorrowful I am after our king that is gone.</p> + +<p>I am a shaking tree, my leaves gone from me; an empty +nut, a horse without a bridle; a people without a +dwelling-place, I Oisin, son of Finn.</p> + +<p>It is long the clouds are over me to-night! it is +long last night was; although this day is long, yesterday +was longer again to me; every day that comes is long +to me.</p> + +<p>That is not the way I used to be, without fighting, +without battles, without learning feats, without young +girls, without music, without harps, without bruising +bones, without great deeds; without increase of learning, +without generosity, without drinking at feasts, without +courting, without hunting, the two trades I was used +to; without going out to battle. Ochone! the want +of them is sorrowful to me.</p> + +<p>No hunting of deer or stag, it is not like that I +would wish to be; no leashes for our hounds, no hounds; +it is long the clouds are over me to-night!</p> + +<p>Without rising up to do bravery as we were used, without +playing as we had a mind; without swimming of our +fighting men in the lake; it is long the clouds are +over me to-night!</p> + +<p>There is no one at all in the world the way I am; +it is a pity the way I am; an old man dragging stones. + It is long the clouds are over me to-night!</p> + +<p>I am the last of the Fenians, great Oisin, son of +Finn, listening to the voice of bells; it is long +the clouds are over me to-night!</p> + +<h2><a name="35">The Foretelling of Cathbad the Druid at Deirdre’s +Birth</a></h2> + +<p>Let Deirdre be her name: harm will come through her. +She will be fair, comely, bright-haired: heroes will +fight for her, and kings go seeking for her.</p> + +<p>O Deirdre, on whose account many shall weep, on whose +account many women shall be envious, there will be +trouble on Ulster for your sake, O fair daughter of +Fedlimid.</p> + +<p>Many will be jealous of your face, O flame of beauty; +for your sake heroes shall go to exile. For your sake +deeds of anger shall be done in Emain; there is harm +in your face, for it will bring banishment and death +on the sons of kings.</p> + +<p>In your fate, O beautiful child, are wounds and ill-doings +and shedding of blood. You will have a little grave +apart to yourself; you will be a tale of wonder for +ever, Deirdre.</p> + +<h2><a name="36">Deirdre’s Lament for the Sons of Usnach</a></h2> + +<p>As for Deirdre, she cried pitifully, wearily, and +tore her fair hair, and she was talking of the sons +of Usnach, and of Alban, and it is what she said:</p> + +<p>A blessing eastward to Alban from me; good is the +sight of her bays and valleys, pleasant was it to +sit on the slopes of her hills, where the sons of +Usnach used to be hunting.</p> + +<p>One day, when the nobles of Alban were drinking with +the sons of Usnach, Naoise gave a kiss secretly to +the daughter of the lord of Duntreon. He sent her +a frightened deer, wild, and a fawn at its foot; and +he went to visit her coming home from the troops of +Inverness.</p> + +<p>When myself heard that, my head filled full of jealousy; +I put my boat on the waves, it was the same to me +to live or to die. They followed me swimming, Ainnle +and Ardan, that never said a lie; they turned me back +again, two that would give battle to a hundred. Naoise +gave me his true word, he swore three times with his +arms as witness, he would never put vexation on me +again, until he would go from me to the armies of the +dead.</p> + +<p>Och! if she knew to-night, Naoise to be under a covering +of clay, it is she would cry her fill, and it is I +would cry along with her!</p> + +<p>After that Deirdre lay down by the grave, and they +were digging earth from it, and she made this lament +after the sons of Usnach:</p> + +<p>Long is the day without the sons of Usnach; it was +never wearisome to be in their company; sons of a +king that entertained exiles; three lions of the Hill +of the Cave.</p> + +<p>Three darlings of the women of Britain; three hawks +of Slieve Cuilenn; sons of a king served by valour, +to whom warriors did obedience.</p> + +<p>Three heroes not good at homage; their fall is a cause +of sorrow; three sons of the sister of a king; three +props of the army of Cuailgne.</p> + +<p>The High King of Ulster, my first betrothed, I forsook +for love of Naoise; short my life will be after him; +I will make keening at their burial.</p> + +<p>That I would live after Naoise let no one think on +the earth; I will not go on living after Ainnle and +after Ardan.</p> + +<p>After them I myself will not live; three that would +leap through the midst of battle; since my beloved +is gone from me I will cry my fill over his grave.</p> + +<p>O, young man, digging the new grave, do not make the +grave narrow; I will be along with them in the grave, +making lamentations and ochones!</p> + +<p>Many the hardship I met with along with the three +heroes; I suffered want of home, want of fire, it +is myself that used not to be troubled.</p> + +<p>Their three shields and their spears made a bed for +me often. O, young man, put their three swords close +over their grave!</p> + +<p>Their three hounds, their three hawks, will be from +this time without huntsmen; three aids of every battle; +three pupils of Conall Cearnach.</p> + +<p>The three leashes of those three hounds have brought +a sigh from my heart: it is I had the care of them, +the sight of them is a cause of grief.</p> + +<p>I was never one day alone to the day of the making +of this grave, though it is often that myself and +yourselves were in loneliness.</p> + +<p>My sight is gone from me with looking at the grave +of Naoise; it is short till my life will leave me, +and those who would have keened me do not live.</p> + +<p>Since it is through me they were betrayed I will be +tired out with sorrow; it is a pity I was not in the +earth before the sons of Usnach were killed.</p> + +<p>Sorrowful was my journey with Fergus, betraying me +to the Red Branch; we were deceived all together with +his sweet, flowery words. I left the delights of Ulster +for the three heroes that were bravest; my life will +not be long, I myself am alone after them.</p> + +<p>I am Deirdre without gladness, and I at the end of +my life; since it is grief to be without them, I myself +will not be long after them!</p> + +<h2><a name="37">Emer’s Lament for Cuchulain</a></h2> + +<p>And Emer took the head of Cuchulain in her hands, +and she washed it clean, and put a silk cloth about +it, and she held it to her breast, and she began to +cry heavily over it, and she made this complaint:</p> + +<p>Och, head! Ochone, O head! you gave death to great +heroes, to many hundreds; my head will lie in the +same grave, the one stone will be made for both of +us.</p> + +<p>Och, hand! Ochone, hand, that was once gentle. It +is often it was put under my head; it is dear that +hand was to me.</p> + +<p>Dear mouth! Ochone, kind mouth that was sweet-voiced +telling stories; since the time love first came on +your face, you never refused either weak or strong.</p> + +<p>Dear the man, dear the man, that would kill the whole +of a great army; dear his cold bright hair, and dear +his bright cheeks!</p> + +<p>Dear the king, dear the king, that never gave a refusal +to any; thirty days it is to-night since my body lay +beside your body.</p> + +<p>Och, two spears! Ochone, two spears! Och, shield! +Och, deadly sword! Let them be given, to Conall of +the battles; there was never any wage given the like +of that.</p> + +<p>I am glad, I am glad, Cuchulain of Muirthemne, I never +brought red shame on your face, for any unfaithfulness +against you.</p> + +<p>Happy are they, happy are they, who will never hear +the cuckoo again for ever, now that the Hound has +died from us.</p> + +<p>I am carried away like a branch on the stream; I will +not bind up my hair to-day. From this day I have nothing +to say that is better than Ochone! “And oh! +my love,” she said, “we were often in one +another’s company, and it was happy for us; +for if the world had been searched from the rising +of the sun to sunset, the like would never have been +found in one place, of the Black Sainglain and the +Grey of Macha, and Laeg the chariot-driver, and myself +and Cuchulain. And it is breaking my heart is in my +body, to be listening to the pity and the sorrowing +of women and men, and the harsh crying of the young +men of Ulster keening Cuchulain.” And after +that Emer bade Conall to make a wide, very deep grave +for Cuchulain; and she laid herself down beside her +gentle comrade, and she put her mouth to his mouth, +and she said: “Love of my life, my friend, my +sweetheart, my one choice of the men of the earth, +many is the woman, wed or unwed, envied me till to-day; +and now I will not stay living after you.” +</p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Kiltartan Poetry Book, by Lady Gregory + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE KILTARTAN POETRY BOOK *** + +***** This file should be named 6656-h.htm or 6656-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/6/6/5/6656/ + +Produced by David Starner, Curtis A. 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