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diff --git a/old/tkpbo10.txt b/old/tkpbo10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..be648ee --- /dev/null +++ b/old/tkpbo10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2159 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Kiltartan Poetry Book, by Lady Gregory + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: The Kiltartan Poetry Book + +Author: Lady Gregory + +Release Date: October, 2004 [EBook #6656] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on January 10, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE KILTARTAN POETRY BOOK *** + + + + +David Starner, Curtis A. Weyant, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team. + + + +THE KILTARTAN POETRY BOOK + +PROSE TRANSLATIONS FROM THE IRISH + +BY LADY GREGORY + + + + +_Introduction_ + + + +I + + +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 _Lalla Rookh_, 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 _The Spirit of the Nation_ +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. + + We thought you would not die, we were sure you would not go + And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell's cruel blow; + Sheep without a shepherd when the snow shuts out the sky, + O why did you leave us Owen? Why did you die? + +And if some others are little more than a catalogue, unmusical, as:-- + + Now to begin to name them I'll continue in a direct line, + There's John Mitchell, Thomas Francis Meagher and also William Smith + O'Brien; + John Martin and O'Donoghue, Erin sorely feels their loss, + And to complete their number I will include O'Donovan Ross-- + +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: + + Mac Dermott, Mallin, Hanrahan, Daly, Colbert and Mac Bride + All men who for our country's cause have nobly bled and died. + +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." + + + + +II + + +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. + + + + +III + + +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 _Silva Gaedelica_ +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, _An Craoibhin,_ 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. + + + + +IV + + +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. + +An Aran man, repeating to me _The Grief of a Girl's Heart_ 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 _Vision of +Death_ and the _Lament for O'Daly._ 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. + + + + +V + + +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." + + + + +VI + + +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 with 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." + + + + +VII + + +In translating these poems I have chosen to do so in the speech of +the thatched houses where I have heard and gathered them. _An +Craoibhin_ had already used this Gaelic construction, these +Elizabethan phrases, in translating the _Love Songs of Connacht_, +as I have used it even in my creative work. Synge had not yet used +it when he found in my _Cuchulain of Muirthemne_ "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 _Cuchulain of Muirthemne_, _Gods and Fighting Men_, +_Saints and Wonders_, and _Poets and Dreamers_. 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. + +AUGUSTA GREGORY. + +COOLE, May, 1918. + + + + +_CONTENTS_ + + +The Grief of a Girl's Heart +A Lament for Fair-Haired Donough that Was Hanged in Galway +Raftery's Praise of Mary Hynes +His Lament for O'Daly +His Praise of the Little Hill and the Plains of Mayo +His Lament for O'Kelly +His Vision of Death +His Repentance +His Answer when Some Stranger Aske Who He Was +A Blessing on Patrick Sarsfield +An Aran Maid's Wedding +A Poem Written in Time of Trouble by an Irish Priest Who Had Taken + Orders in France +The Heart of the Wood +An Croaibhin Complain Because He Is a Poet +He Cries Out Against Love +He Meditates on the Life of a Rich Man +Forgaill's Praise of Columcille +The Deer's Cry +The Hymn of Molling's Guest, the Man Full of Trouble +The Hag of Beare +The Seven Heavens +The Journey of the Sun +The Nature of the Stars +The Call to Bran +The Army of the Sidhe +Credhe's Complaint at the Battle of the White Strand +A Sleepy Song that Grania Used to Be Singing Over Diarmuid the Time + They Were Wandering and Hiding From Finn +Her Song to Rouse Him from Sleep +Her Lament for His Death +The Parting of Goll and His Wife +The Death of Osgar +Oisin's Vision +His Praise of Finn +Oisin after the Fenians +The Foretelling of Cathbad the Druid +At Deidre's Birth +Deirdre's Lament for the Sons of Usnach +Emer's Lament for Cuchulain + + + + + +THE KILTARTAN POETRY BOOK + + + + +_The Grief of a Girl's Heart_ + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +O, ochone, and it's not with hunger or with wanting food, or drink, +or sleep, that I am growing thin, and my life is shortened; but it +is the love of a young man has withered me away. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + + + + +_A Lament for Fair-Haired Donough that Was Hanged in Galway_ + + +It was bound fast here you saw him, and wondered to see him, +Our fair-haired Donough, and he after being condemned; +There was a little white cap on him in place of a hat, +And a hempen rope in the place of a neck-cloth. + +I am after walking here all through the night, +Like a young lamb in a great flock of sheep; +My breast open, my hair loosened out, +And how did I find my brother but stretched before me! + +The first place I cried my fill was at the top of the lake; +The second place was at the foot of the gallows; +The third place was at the head of your dead body +Among the Gall, and my own head as if cut in two. + +If you were with me in the place you had a right to be, +Down in Sligo or down in Ballinrobe, +It is the gallows would be broken, it is the rope would be cut +And fair-haired Donough going home by the path. + +O fair-haired Donough, it is not the gallows was fit for you; +But to be going to the barn, to be threshing out the straw; +To be turning the plough to the right hand and to the left, +To be putting the red side of the soil uppermost. + +O fair-haired Donough, O dear brother, +It is well I know who it was took you away from me; +Drinking from the cup, putting a light to the pipe, +And walking in the dew in the cover of the night. + +O Michael Malley, O scourge of misfortune! +My brother was no calf of a vagabond cow; +But a well-shaped boy on a height or a hillside, +To knock a low pleasant sound out of a hurling-stick. + +And fair-haired Donough, is not that the pity, +You that would carry well a spur or a boot; +I would put clothes in the fashion on you from cloth that would be + lasting; +I would send you out like a gentleman's son. + +O Michael Malley, may your sons never be in one another's company; +May your daughters never ask a marriage portion of you; +The two ends of the table are empty, the house is filled, +And fair-haired Donough, my brother, is stretched out. + +There is a marriage portion coming home for Donough, +But it is not cattle or sheep or horses; +But tobacco and pipes and white candles, +And it will not be begrudged to them that will use it. + + + + +_Raftery's Praise of Mary Hynes_ + + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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." + +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? + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +_His Lament for O'Daly_ + + +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. + +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! + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + +_His Praise of the Little Hill and the Plains of Mayo_ + + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +_His Lament for O'Kelly_ + + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +_His Vision of Death_ + + +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.... + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + +_His Repentance_ + + +O King who art in Heaven, I scream to Thee again and aloud, for it +is Thy grace I am hoping for. + +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. + +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. + + + + +_His Answer When Some Stranger Asked Who He Was_ + + +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. + +I am now, and my back to a wall, playing music to empty pockets. + + + + +_A Blessing on Patrick Sarsfield_ + + +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! + +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! + +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! + +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! + +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! + +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! + +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! + +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! + + + + +_An Aran Maid's Wedding_ + + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +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. + +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! + + + + +_A Poem Written in Time of Trouble by an Irish Priest Who Had Taken +Orders in France_ + + + My thoughts, my grief! are without strength + My spirit is journeying towards death + My eyes are as a frozen sea + My tears my daily food; + There is nothing in life but only misery. + My poor heart is torn + And my thoughts are sharp wounds within me, + Mourning the miserable state of Ireland. + + Misfortune has come upon us all together + The poor, the rich, the weak and the strong + The great lord by whom hundreds were maintained + The powerful strong man, and the man that holds the plough; + And the cross laid on the bare shoulder of every man. + + Our feasts are without any voice of priests + And none at them but women lamenting + Tearing their hair with troubled minds + Keening miserably after the Fenians. + + The pipes of our organs are broken + Our harps have lost their strings that were tuned + That might have made the great lamentations of Ireland. + Until the strong men come back across the sea + There is no help for us but bitter crying, + Screams, and beating of hands, and calling out. + + I do not know of anything under the sky + That is friendly or favourable to the Gael + + But only the sea that our need brings us to, + Or the wind that blows to the harbour + The ship that is bearing us away from Ireland; + And there is reason that these are reconciled with us, + For we increase the sea with our tears + And the wandering wind with our sighs. + + + + +_The Heart of the Wood_ + + +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. + + + + +_An Craoibhin Complains Because He Is a Poet_ + + + It's my grief that I am not a little white duck, + And I'd swim over the sea to France or to Spain; + I would not stay in Ireland for one week only, + To be without eating, without drinking, without a full jug. + + Without a full jug, without eating, without drinking, + Without a feast to get, without wine, without meat, + Without high dances, without a big name, without music; + There is hunger on me, and I astray this long time. + + It's my grief that I am not an old crow, + I would sit for awhile up on the old branch, + I could satisfy my hunger, and I not as I am + With a grain of oats or a white potato + + It's my grief that I am not a red fox, + Leaping strong and swift on the mountains, + Eating cocks and hens without pity, + Taking ducks and geese as a conquerer. + + It's my grief that I am not a bright salmon, + Going through the strong full water, + Catching the mayflies by my craft, + Swimming at my choice, and swimming with + the stream + + It's my grief that I am of the race of the poets; + It would be better for me to be a high rock, + Or a stone or a tree or an herb or a flower + Or anything at all but the thing that I am! + + + + +_He Cries Out Against Love_ + + + There are three fine devils eating my heart-- + They left me, my grief! without a thing; + Sickness wrought, and Love wrought, + And an empty pocket, my ruin and my woe. + Poverty left me without a shirt, + Barefooted, barelegged, without any covering; + Sickness left me with my head weak + And my body miserable, an ugly thing. + Love left me like a coal upon the floor, + Like a half-burned sod that is never put out. + Worse than the cough, worse than the fever itself, + Worse than any curse at all under the sun, + Worse than the great poverty + Is the devil that is called "Love" by the people. + And if I were in my young youth again + I would not take, or give, or ask for a kiss! + + + + +_He Meditates on the Life of a Rich Man_ + + + A golden cradle under you, and you young; + A right mother and a strong kiss. + + A lively horse, and you a boy; + A school and learning and close companions. + + A beautiful wife, and you a man; + A wide house and everything that is good. + + A fine wife, children, substance; + Cattle, means, herds and flocks. + + A place to sit, a place to lie down; + Plenty of food and plenty of drink. + After that, an old man among old men; + Respect on you and honour on you. + + Head of the court, of the jury, of the meeting, + And the counsellors not the worse for having you. + + At the end of your days death, and then + Hiding away; the boards and the church. + + What are you better after to-night + Than Ned the beggar or Seaghan the fool? + + + + +_Forgaill's Praise of Columcille_ + + +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: + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +The whole world was his; it is a harp without its strings; it is a +church without its abbot. + +Colum rose very high the time God's companies rose to meet him; it +is bright the angels were, attending on him. + +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. + +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. + +He knew the way he was going; he gave kindness for hatred; he learned +psalms; he broke the battle against hunger. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + + + + +_The Deer's Cry_ + + +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. + +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. + +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; + +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; + +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; + +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. + +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; + +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. + +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; + +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. + +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. + + + + +_The Hymn of Molling's Guest, the Man Full of Trouble_ + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +_The Hag of Beare_ + + +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: + +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. + +It is riches you are loving, it is not men; it was men we loved in +the time we were living. + +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. + +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. + +The young girls give a welcome to Beltaine when it comes to them; +sorrow is more fitting for me; an old pitiful hag. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Amen, great is the pity; every acorn has to drop. After feasting with +shining candles, to be in the darkness of a prayer-house. + +I was once living with kings, drinking mead and wine; to-day I am +drinking whey-water among withered old women. + +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. + +The flood-wave and the two swift ebb-tides; what the flood-wave brings +you in, the ebb-wave sweeps out of your hand. + +The flood-wave and the second ebb-tide; they have all come as far as +me, the way that I know them well. + +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. My flood-tide! It is well I have kept my knowledge. It is Jesus +Son of Mary keeps me happy at the ebb-tide. + +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. + +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! + + + + +_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. The Seven Heavens_ + + +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. + +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. + + + +_II. The Journey of the Sun_ + + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + +_III. The Nature of the Stars_ + + +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. + + + + +_The Call to Bran_ + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +There is nothing to liken its mists to, the sea washes the wave against +the land; brightness falls from its hair. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +_The Army of the Sidhe_ + +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: + +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. + +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. + +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. Their bodies smooth and comely; their eyes blue and far-seeing; +their teeth bright like crystal within their thin red lips. + +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. + +The most beautiful of plains is the Plain of the Two Mists; it is not +far from this place. + + + + +_Credhe's Complaint at the Battle of the White Strand_ + + +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. + +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. + +Pitiful the cry, pitiful the cry the thrush is making in the Pleasant +Ridge; sorrowful is the cry of the blackbird in Leiter Laeig. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +_A Sleepy Song that Grania Used to Be Singing over Diarmuid the Time +They Were Wandering and Hiding from Finn_ + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +_Her Song to Rouse Him from Sleep_ + + +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. + +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. + + + + +_Her Lament for His Death_ + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +_The Parting of Goll and His Wife_ + + +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. + +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." + +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." + +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. + + + + +_The Death of Osgar_ + + +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." + +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. + + + + +_Oisin's Vision_ + + +I saw the household of Finn; it was not the household of a soft race; +I had a vision of that man yesterday. + +I saw the household of the High King, he with the brown sweet-voiced +son; I never saw a better man. + +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. + +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. + + + + +_His Praise of Finn_ + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +_Oisin after the Fenians_ + + +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. + +It is bad the way I am after Finn of the Fenians; since he is gone +away, every good is behind me. + +Without great people, without mannerly ways; it is sorrowful I am after +our king that is gone. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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! + +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! + +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! + + + + +_The Foretelling of Cathbad the Druid at Deirdre's Birth_ + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +_Deirdre's Lament for the Sons of Usnach_ + + +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: + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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: + +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. + +Three darlings of the women of Britain; three hawks of Slieve Cuilenn; +sons of a king served by valour, to whom warriors did obedience. + +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. + +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. + +That I would live after Naoise let no one think on the earth; I will +not go on living after Ainnle and after Ardan. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +Their three shields and their spears made a bed for me often. O, young +man, put their three swords close over their grave! + +Their three hounds, their three hawks, will be from this time without +huntsmen; three aids of every battle; three pupils of Conall Cearnach. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + + + + +_Emer's Lament for Cuchulain_ + + +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: + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +I am glad, I am glad, Cuchulain of Muirthemne, I never brought red +shame on your face, for any unfaithfulness against you. + +Happy are they, happy are they, who will never hear the cuckoo again +for ever, now that the Hound has died from us. + +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." + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE KILTARTAN POETRY BOOK *** + +This file should be named tkpbo10.txt or tkpbo10.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, tkpbo11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, tkpbo10a.txt + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END* + diff --git a/old/tkpbo10.zip b/old/tkpbo10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..8d510fb --- /dev/null +++ b/old/tkpbo10.zip diff --git a/old/tkpbo10h.htm b/old/tkpbo10h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e1b669b --- /dev/null +++ b/old/tkpbo10h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2387 @@ +<!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> + +<H1>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Kiltartan Poetry Book by Lady Gregory</H1> + +<PRE> +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: The Kiltartan Poetry Book + +Author: Lady Gregory + +Release Date: October, 2004 [EBook #6656] +[Yes, we are almost one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on January 10, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE KILTARTAN POETRY BOOK *** + +</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 THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE KILTARTAN POETRY BOOK *** + +This file should be named tkpbo10h.htm or tkpbo10h.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, tkpbo11h.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, tkpbo10ah.txt + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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