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