Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath![24]Alas that thy lord is not alive!The high-king of Meath of the polished walls,His death has thrown us off our course.Thou without games, without drinking of ale,Thou shining abode of the twisted horns!After Malachy of noble shapeAlas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath!I upon the green of thy smooth knollsLike Ronan's son after the Fiana,Or like a hind after her fawn,Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath!I got three hundred speckled cups,Three hundred steeds and bridlesIn this famous fort of noble shape—Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath!After Malachy and sweet Brian,[25]And Murchad[26]that was never weak in hurdled battle,My heart has been left without a leap of vigour,Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath!Ochone! I am the wretched phantom,Small are my wages since the three are gone.Greater than my own ruin is my cause of lament,Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath!Och! 'tis I that am the body without head,I, Mac Coisse, chief of all poets—Now that my skill and my vigour are gone,Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath!
Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath![24]Alas that thy lord is not alive!The high-king of Meath of the polished walls,His death has thrown us off our course.
Thou without games, without drinking of ale,Thou shining abode of the twisted horns!After Malachy of noble shapeAlas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath!
I upon the green of thy smooth knollsLike Ronan's son after the Fiana,Or like a hind after her fawn,Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath!
I got three hundred speckled cups,Three hundred steeds and bridlesIn this famous fort of noble shape—Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath!
After Malachy and sweet Brian,[25]And Murchad[26]that was never weak in hurdled battle,My heart has been left without a leap of vigour,Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath!
Ochone! I am the wretched phantom,Small are my wages since the three are gone.Greater than my own ruin is my cause of lament,Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath!
Och! 'tis I that am the body without head,I, Mac Coisse, chief of all poets—Now that my skill and my vigour are gone,Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath!
FOOTNOTES:[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.
[23]King of Ireland. He died in 1022.
[23]King of Ireland. He died in 1022.
[24]The Fort of the Shields, on Lough Ennel, Co. Westmeath.
[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.
[25]i.e.Brian Boru, who had fallen in 1014 in the battle of Clontarf.
[26]Brian's son, fallen at Clontarf.
[26]Brian's son, fallen at Clontarf.
I and my white PangurHave each his special art:His mind is set on hunting mice,Mine is upon my special craft.I love to rest—better than any fame!—With close study at my little book:White Pangur does not envy me:He loves his childish play.When in our house we two are all alone—A tale without tedium!We have—sport never-ending!Something to exercise our wit.At times by feats of derring-doA mouse sticks in his net,While into my net there dropsA difficult problem of hard meaning.He points his full shining eyeAgainst the fence of the wall:I point my clear though feeble eyeAgainst the keenness of science.He rejoices with quick leapsWhen in his sharp claw sticks a mouse:I too rejoice when I have graspedA problem difficult and dearly loved.Though we are thus at all times,Neither hinders the other,Each of us pleased with his own artAmuses himself alone.He is a master of the workWhich every day he does:While I am at my own workTo bring difficulty to clearness.
I and my white PangurHave each his special art:His mind is set on hunting mice,Mine is upon my special craft.
I love to rest—better than any fame!—With close study at my little book:White Pangur does not envy me:He loves his childish play.
When in our house we two are all alone—A tale without tedium!We have—sport never-ending!Something to exercise our wit.
At times by feats of derring-doA mouse sticks in his net,While into my net there dropsA difficult problem of hard meaning.
He points his full shining eyeAgainst the fence of the wall:I point my clear though feeble eyeAgainst the keenness of science.
He rejoices with quick leapsWhen in his sharp claw sticks a mouse:I too rejoice when I have graspedA problem difficult and dearly loved.
Though we are thus at all times,Neither hinders the other,Each of us pleased with his own artAmuses himself alone.
He is a master of the workWhich every day he does:While I am at my own workTo bring difficulty to clearness.
Delightful to be on the Hill of HowthBefore going over the white-haired sea:The dashing of the wave against its face,The bareness of its shores and of its border.Delightful to be on the Hill of HowthAfter coming over the white-bosomed sea;To be rowing one's little coracle,Ochone! on the wild-waved shore.Great is the speed of my coracle,And its stern turned upon Derry:Grievous is my errand over the main,Travelling to Alba of the beetling brows.My foot in my tuneful coracle,My sad heart tearful:A man without guidance is weak,Blind are all the ignorant.There is a grey eyeThat will look back upon Erin:It shall never see againThe men of Erin nor her women.I stretch my glance across the brineFrom the firm oaken planks:Many are the tears of my bright soft grey eyeAs I look back upon Erin.My mind is upon Erin,Upon Loch Lene, upon Linny,Upon the land where Ulstermen are,Upon gentle Munster and upon Meath.Many in the East are lanky chiels,Many diseases there and distempers,Many they with scanty dress,Many the hard and jealous hearts.Plentiful in the West the fruit of the apple-tree,Many kings and princes;Plentiful are luxurious sloes,Plentiful oak-woods of noble mast.Melodious her clerics, melodious her birds,Gentle her youths, wise her elders,Illustrious her men, famous to behold,Illustrious her women for fond espousal.It is in the West sweet Brendan is,And Colum son of Criffan,And in the West fair Baithin shall be,And in the West shall be Adamnan.Carry my greeting after thatTo Comgall of eternal life:Carry my greeting after thatTo the stately king of fair Navan.Carry with thee, thou fair youth,My blessing and my benediction,One half upon Erin, sevenfold,And half upon Alba at the same time.Carry my blessing with thee to the West,My heart is broken in my breast:Should sudden death overtake me,It is for my great love of the Gael.Gael! Gael! beloved name!It gladdens the heart to invoke it:Beloved is Cummin of the beauteous hair,Beloved are Cainnech and Comgall.Were all Alba mineFrom its centre to its border,I would rather have the site of a houseIn the middle of fair Derry.It is for this I love Derry,For its smoothness, for its purity,And for its crowd of white angelsFrom one end to another.It is for this I love Derry,For its smoothness, for its purity;All full of angelsIs every leaf on the oaks of Derry.My Derry, my little oak-grove,My dwelling and my little cell,O living God that art in Heaven above,Woe to him who violates it!Beloved are Durrow and Derry,Beloved is Raphoe with purity,Beloved Drumhome with its sweet acorns,Beloved are Swords and Kells!Beloved also to my heart in the WestDrumcliff on Culcinne's strand:To gaze upon fair Loch Foyle—The shape of its shores is delightful.Delightful it is,The deep-red ocean where the sea-gulls cry,As I come from Derry afar,It is peaceful and it is delightful.
Delightful to be on the Hill of HowthBefore going over the white-haired sea:The dashing of the wave against its face,The bareness of its shores and of its border.
Delightful to be on the Hill of HowthAfter coming over the white-bosomed sea;To be rowing one's little coracle,Ochone! on the wild-waved shore.
Great is the speed of my coracle,And its stern turned upon Derry:Grievous is my errand over the main,Travelling to Alba of the beetling brows.
My foot in my tuneful coracle,My sad heart tearful:A man without guidance is weak,Blind are all the ignorant.
There is a grey eyeThat will look back upon Erin:It shall never see againThe men of Erin nor her women.
I stretch my glance across the brineFrom the firm oaken planks:Many are the tears of my bright soft grey eyeAs I look back upon Erin.
My mind is upon Erin,Upon Loch Lene, upon Linny,Upon the land where Ulstermen are,Upon gentle Munster and upon Meath.
Many in the East are lanky chiels,Many diseases there and distempers,Many they with scanty dress,Many the hard and jealous hearts.
Plentiful in the West the fruit of the apple-tree,Many kings and princes;Plentiful are luxurious sloes,Plentiful oak-woods of noble mast.
Melodious her clerics, melodious her birds,Gentle her youths, wise her elders,Illustrious her men, famous to behold,Illustrious her women for fond espousal.
It is in the West sweet Brendan is,And Colum son of Criffan,And in the West fair Baithin shall be,And in the West shall be Adamnan.
Carry my greeting after thatTo Comgall of eternal life:Carry my greeting after thatTo the stately king of fair Navan.
Carry with thee, thou fair youth,My blessing and my benediction,One half upon Erin, sevenfold,And half upon Alba at the same time.
Carry my blessing with thee to the West,My heart is broken in my breast:Should sudden death overtake me,It is for my great love of the Gael.
Gael! Gael! beloved name!It gladdens the heart to invoke it:Beloved is Cummin of the beauteous hair,Beloved are Cainnech and Comgall.
Were all Alba mineFrom its centre to its border,I would rather have the site of a houseIn the middle of fair Derry.
It is for this I love Derry,For its smoothness, for its purity,And for its crowd of white angelsFrom one end to another.
It is for this I love Derry,For its smoothness, for its purity;All full of angelsIs every leaf on the oaks of Derry.
My Derry, my little oak-grove,My dwelling and my little cell,O living God that art in Heaven above,Woe to him who violates it!
Beloved are Durrow and Derry,Beloved is Raphoe with purity,Beloved Drumhome with its sweet acorns,Beloved are Swords and Kells!
Beloved also to my heart in the WestDrumcliff on Culcinne's strand:To gaze upon fair Loch Foyle—The shape of its shores is delightful.
Delightful it is,The deep-red ocean where the sea-gulls cry,As I come from Derry afar,It is peaceful and it is delightful.
Delightful to sit here thusBy the side of the cold pure Nore:Though it was frequented, it was never a path o raidsIn glorious Disert Bethech.[27]Disert Bethech, where dwelt the manWhom hosts of angels were wont to visit;A pious cloister behind a circle of crosses,Where Angus son of Oivlen used to be.Angus from the assembly of Heaven,Here are his tomb and his grave:'Tis hence he went to death,On a Friday, to holy Heaven.'Tis in Clonenagh he was reared,In Clonenagh he was buried:In Clonenagh of many crossesHe first read his psalms.
Delightful to sit here thusBy the side of the cold pure Nore:Though it was frequented, it was never a path o raidsIn glorious Disert Bethech.[27]
Disert Bethech, where dwelt the manWhom hosts of angels were wont to visit;A pious cloister behind a circle of crosses,Where Angus son of Oivlen used to be.
Angus from the assembly of Heaven,Here are his tomb and his grave:'Tis hence he went to death,On a Friday, to holy Heaven.
'Tis in Clonenagh he was reared,In Clonenagh he was buried:In Clonenagh of many crossesHe first read his psalms.
FOOTNOTES:[27]'Beechen Hermitage.'
[27]'Beechen Hermitage.'
[27]'Beechen Hermitage.'
My hand is weary with writing,My sharp quill is not steady,My slender-beaked pen juts forthA black draught of shining dark-blue ink.A stream of the wisdom of blessed GodSprings from my fair-brown shapely hand:On the page it squirts its draughtOf ink of the green-skinned holly.My little dripping pen travelsAcross the plain of shining books,Without ceasing for the wealth of the great—Whence my hand is weary with writing.
My hand is weary with writing,My sharp quill is not steady,My slender-beaked pen juts forthA black draught of shining dark-blue ink.
A stream of the wisdom of blessed GodSprings from my fair-brown shapely hand:On the page it squirts its draughtOf ink of the green-skinned holly.
My little dripping pen travelsAcross the plain of shining books,Without ceasing for the wealth of the great—Whence my hand is weary with writing.
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:
The reason why she was called the Old Woman of Beare was that she had fifty foster-children in Beare. She had seven periods of youth one after another, so that every man who had lived with her came to die of old age, and her grandsons and great-grandsons were tribes and races. For a hundred years she wore the veil which Cummin had blessed upon her head. Thereupon old age and infirmity came to her. 'Tis then she said:
Ebb-tide to me as of the sea!Old age causes me reproach.Though I may grieve thereat—Happiness comes out of fat.I am the Old Woman of Beare,An ever-new smock I used to wear:To-day—such is my mean estate—I wear not even a cast-off smock.It is richesYe love, it is not men:In the time whenwelivedIt was men we loved.Swift chariots,And steeds that carried off the prize,—Their day of plenty has been,A blessing on the King who lent them!My body with bitterness has droptTowards the abode we know:When the Son of God deems it timeLet Him come to deliver His behest.My arms when they are seenAre bony and thin:Once they would fondle,They would be round glorious kings.When my arms are seen,And they bony and thin,They are not fit, I declare,To be uplifted over comely youths.The maidens rejoiceWhen May-day comes to them:For me sorrow is meeter,For I am wretched, I am an old hag.I hold no sweet converse,No wethers are killed for my wedding-feast,My hair is all but grey,The mean veil over it is no pity.I do not deem it illThat a white veil should be on my head:Time was when many cloths of every hueBedecked my head as we drank the good ale.The Stone of the Kings on Femen,The Chair of Ronan in Bregon,'Tis long since storms have reached them.The slabs of their tombs are old and decayed.The wave of the great sea talks aloud,Winter has arisen:Fermuid the son of Mugh to-dayI do not expect on a visit.I know what they are doing:They row and row acrossThe reeds of the Ford of Alma—Cold is the dwelling where they sleep.'Tis 'O my God!'To me to-day, whatever will come of it.I must take my garment even in the sun:[28]The time is at hand that shall renew me.Youth's summer in which we wereI have spent with its autumn:Winter-age which overwhelms all men,To me has come its beginning.Amen! Woe is me!Every acorn has to drop.After feasting by shining candlesTo be in the gloom of a prayer-house!I had my day with kingsDrinking mead and wine:To-day I drink whey-waterAmong shrivelled old hags.I see upon my cloak the hair of old age,My reason has beguiled me:Grey is the hair that grows through my skin—'Tis thus I am an old hag.The flood-waveAnd the second ebb-tide—They have all reached me,So that I know them well.The flood-waveWill not reach the silence of my kitchen:Though many are my company in darkness,A hand has been laid upon them all.O happy the isle of the great seaWhich the flood reaches after the ebb!As for me, I do not expectFlood after ebb to come to me.There is scarce a little place to-dayThat I can recognise:What was on floodIs all on ebb.
Ebb-tide to me as of the sea!Old age causes me reproach.Though I may grieve thereat—Happiness comes out of fat.
I am the Old Woman of Beare,An ever-new smock I used to wear:To-day—such is my mean estate—I wear not even a cast-off smock.
It is richesYe love, it is not men:In the time whenwelivedIt was men we loved.
Swift chariots,And steeds that carried off the prize,—Their day of plenty has been,A blessing on the King who lent them!
My body with bitterness has droptTowards the abode we know:When the Son of God deems it timeLet Him come to deliver His behest.
My arms when they are seenAre bony and thin:Once they would fondle,They would be round glorious kings.
When my arms are seen,And they bony and thin,They are not fit, I declare,To be uplifted over comely youths.
The maidens rejoiceWhen May-day comes to them:For me sorrow is meeter,For I am wretched, I am an old hag.
I hold no sweet converse,No wethers are killed for my wedding-feast,My hair is all but grey,The mean veil over it is no pity.
I do not deem it illThat a white veil should be on my head:Time was when many cloths of every hueBedecked my head as we drank the good ale.
The Stone of the Kings on Femen,The Chair of Ronan in Bregon,'Tis long since storms have reached them.The slabs of their tombs are old and decayed.
The wave of the great sea talks aloud,Winter has arisen:Fermuid the son of Mugh to-dayI do not expect on a visit.
I know what they are doing:They row and row acrossThe reeds of the Ford of Alma—Cold is the dwelling where they sleep.
'Tis 'O my God!'To me to-day, whatever will come of it.I must take my garment even in the sun:[28]The time is at hand that shall renew me.
Youth's summer in which we wereI have spent with its autumn:Winter-age which overwhelms all men,To me has come its beginning.
Amen! Woe is me!Every acorn has to drop.After feasting by shining candlesTo be in the gloom of a prayer-house!
I had my day with kingsDrinking mead and wine:To-day I drink whey-waterAmong shrivelled old hags.
I see upon my cloak the hair of old age,My reason has beguiled me:Grey is the hair that grows through my skin—'Tis thus I am an old hag.
The flood-waveAnd the second ebb-tide—They have all reached me,So that I know them well.
The flood-waveWill not reach the silence of my kitchen:Though many are my company in darkness,A hand has been laid upon them all.
O happy the isle of the great seaWhich the flood reaches after the ebb!As for me, I do not expectFlood after ebb to come to me.
There is scarce a little place to-dayThat I can recognise:What was on floodIs all on ebb.
FOOTNOTES:[28]'Je tremble à present dedans la canicule.'—Molière,Sganarelle, scène 2.
[28]'Je tremble à present dedans la canicule.'—Molière,Sganarelle, scène 2.
[28]'Je tremble à present dedans la canicule.'—Molière,Sganarelle, scène 2.
Sadly talks the blackbird here.Well I know the woe he found:No matter who cut down his nest,For its young it was destroyed.I myself not long agoFound the woe he now has found.Well I read thy song, O bird,For the ruin of thy home.Thy heart, O blackbird, burnt withinAt the deed of reckless man:Thy nest bereft of young and eggThe cowherd deems a trifling tale.At thy clear notes they used to come,Thy new-fledged children, from afar;No bird now comes from out thy house,Across its edge the nettle grows.They murdered them, the cowherd lads,All thy children in one day:One the fate to me and thee,My own children live no more.There was feeding by thy sideThy mate, a bird from o'er the sea:Then the snare entangled her,At the cowherds' hands she died.O Thou, the Shaper of the world!Uneven hands Thou layst on us:Our fellows at our side are spared,Their wives and children are alive.A fairy host came as a blastTo bring destruction to our house:Though bloodless was their taking off,Yet dire as slaughter by the sword.Woe for our wife, woe for our young!The sadness of our grief is great:No trace of them within, without—And therefore is my heart so sad.
Sadly talks the blackbird here.Well I know the woe he found:No matter who cut down his nest,For its young it was destroyed.
I myself not long agoFound the woe he now has found.Well I read thy song, O bird,For the ruin of thy home.
Thy heart, O blackbird, burnt withinAt the deed of reckless man:Thy nest bereft of young and eggThe cowherd deems a trifling tale.
At thy clear notes they used to come,Thy new-fledged children, from afar;No bird now comes from out thy house,Across its edge the nettle grows.
They murdered them, the cowherd lads,All thy children in one day:One the fate to me and thee,My own children live no more.
There was feeding by thy sideThy mate, a bird from o'er the sea:Then the snare entangled her,At the cowherds' hands she died.
O Thou, the Shaper of the world!Uneven hands Thou layst on us:Our fellows at our side are spared,Their wives and children are alive.
A fairy host came as a blastTo bring destruction to our house:Though bloodless was their taking off,Yet dire as slaughter by the sword.
Woe for our wife, woe for our young!The sadness of our grief is great:No trace of them within, without—And therefore is my heart so sad.
Shall I launch my dusky little coracleOn the broad-bosomed glorious ocean?Shall I go, O King of bright Heaven,Of my own will upon the brine?Whether it be roomy or narrow,Whether it be served by crowds of hosts—O God, wilt Thou stand by meWhen it comes upon the angry sea?
Shall I launch my dusky little coracleOn the broad-bosomed glorious ocean?Shall I go, O King of bright Heaven,Of my own will upon the brine?
Whether it be roomy or narrow,Whether it be served by crowds of hosts—O God, wilt Thou stand by meWhen it comes upon the angry sea?
Four men stood by the grave of a man,The grave of Alexander the Proud;They sang words without falsehoodOver the prince from fair Greece.Said the first man of them:'Yesterday there were around the kingThe men of the world—a sad gathering!Though to-day he is alone.''Yesterday the king of the brown worldRode upon the heavy earth:Though to-day it is the earthThat rides upon his neck.''Yesterday,' said the third wise author,'Philip's son owned the whole world:To-day he has noughtSave seven feet of earth.''Alexander the liberal and greatWas wont to bestow silver and gold:To-day,' said the fourth man,'The gold is here, and it is nought.'Thus truly spoke the wise menAround the grave of the high-king:It was not foolish women's talkWhat those four sang.
Four men stood by the grave of a man,The grave of Alexander the Proud;They sang words without falsehoodOver the prince from fair Greece.
Said the first man of them:'Yesterday there were around the kingThe men of the world—a sad gathering!Though to-day he is alone.'
'Yesterday the king of the brown worldRode upon the heavy earth:Though to-day it is the earthThat rides upon his neck.'
'Yesterday,' said the third wise author,'Philip's son owned the whole world:To-day he has noughtSave seven feet of earth.'
'Alexander the liberal and greatWas wont to bestow silver and gold:To-day,' said the fourth man,'The gold is here, and it is nought.'
Thus truly spoke the wise menAround the grave of the high-king:It was not foolish women's talkWhat those four sang.
A hedge of trees surrounds me,A blackbird's lay sings to me;Above my lined bookletThe trilling birds chant to me.In a grey mantle from the top of bushesThe cuckoo sings:Verily—may the Lord shield me!—Well do I write under the greenwood.
A hedge of trees surrounds me,A blackbird's lay sings to me;Above my lined bookletThe trilling birds chant to me.
In a grey mantle from the top of bushesThe cuckoo sings:Verily—may the Lord shield me!—Well do I write under the greenwood.
Dead is LonOf Kilgarrow, O great hurt!To Ireland and beyond her borderIt is ruin of study and of schools.
Dead is LonOf Kilgarrow, O great hurt!To Ireland and beyond her borderIt is ruin of study and of schools.
At the cry of the first birdThey began to crucify Thee, O cheek like a swan!It were not right ever to cease lamenting—It was like the parting of day from night.Ah! though sore the sufferingPut upon the body of Mary's Son—Sorer to Him was the griefThat was upon her for His sake.
At the cry of the first birdThey began to crucify Thee, O cheek like a swan!It were not right ever to cease lamenting—It was like the parting of day from night.
Ah! though sore the sufferingPut upon the body of Mary's Son—Sorer to Him was the griefThat was upon her for His sake.
To go to RomeIs much of trouble, little of profit:The King whom thou seekest here,Unless thou bring Him with thee, thou wilt not find.
To go to RomeIs much of trouble, little of profit:The King whom thou seekest here,Unless thou bring Him with thee, thou wilt not find.
O King of stars!Whether my house be dark or bright,Never shall it be closed against any one,Lest Christ close His house against me.If there be a guest in your houseAnd you conceal aught from him,'Tis not the guest that will be without it,But Jesus, Mary's Son.
O King of stars!Whether my house be dark or bright,Never shall it be closed against any one,Lest Christ close His house against me.
If there be a guest in your houseAnd you conceal aught from him,'Tis not the guest that will be without it,But Jesus, Mary's Son.
Ah, blackbird, thou art satisfiedWhere thy nest is in the bush:Hermit that clinkest no bell,Sweet, soft, peaceful is thy note.
Ah, blackbird, thou art satisfiedWhere thy nest is in the bush:Hermit that clinkest no bell,Sweet, soft, peaceful is thy note.
When I am among my eldersI am proof that sport is forbidden:When I am among the mad young folkThey think that I am their junior.
When I am among my eldersI am proof that sport is forbidden:When I am among the mad young folkThey think that I am their junior.
Sweet little bellThat is struck[29]in the windy night,I liefer go to a tryst with theeThan to a tryst with a foolish woman.
Sweet little bellThat is struck[29]in the windy night,I liefer go to a tryst with theeThan to a tryst with a foolish woman.
FOOTNOTES:[29]The tongueless Irish bells were struck, not rung.
[29]The tongueless Irish bells were struck, not rung.
[29]The tongueless Irish bells were struck, not rung.
Bitter is the wind to-night,It tosses the ocean's white hair:To-night I fear not the fierce warriors of NorwayCoursing on the Irish Sea.
Bitter is the wind to-night,It tosses the ocean's white hair:To-night I fear not the fierce warriors of NorwayCoursing on the Irish Sea.
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.
'O Cormac, grandson of Conn,' said Carbery, 'what are the dues of a chief and of an ale-house?'
'Not hard to tell,' said Cormac.
'Good behaviour around a good chief,Lights to lamps,Exerting oneself for the company,A proper settlement of seats,Liberality of dispensers,A nimble hand at distributing,Attentive service,Music in moderation,Short story-telling,A joyous countenance,Welcome to guests,Silence during recitals,Harmonious choruses.'
'Good behaviour around a good chief,Lights to lamps,Exerting oneself for the company,A proper settlement of seats,Liberality of dispensers,A nimble hand at distributing,Attentive service,Music in moderation,Short story-telling,A joyous countenance,Welcome to guests,Silence during recitals,Harmonious choruses.'
'O Cormac, grandson of Conn,' said Carbery, 'what were your habits when you were a lad?'
'Not hard to tell,' said Cormac.
'I was a listener in woods,I was a gazer at stars,I was blind where secrets were concerned,I was silent in a wilderness,I was talkative among many,I was mild in the mead-hall,I was stern in battle,I was gentle towards allies,I was a physician of the sick,I was weak towards the feeble,I was strong towards the powerful,I was not close lest I should be burdensome,I was not arrogant though I was wise,I was not given to promising though I was strong,I was not venturesome though I was swift,I did not deride the old though I was young,I was not boastful though I was a good fighter,I would not speak about any one in his absence,I would not reproach, but I would praise,I would not ask, but I would give,—
'I was a listener in woods,I was a gazer at stars,I was blind where secrets were concerned,I was silent in a wilderness,I was talkative among many,I was mild in the mead-hall,I was stern in battle,I was gentle towards allies,I was a physician of the sick,I was weak towards the feeble,I was strong towards the powerful,I was not close lest I should be burdensome,I was not arrogant though I was wise,I was not given to promising though I was strong,I was not venturesome though I was swift,I did not deride the old though I was young,I was not boastful though I was a good fighter,I would not speak about any one in his absence,I would not reproach, but I would praise,I would not ask, but I would give,—
for it is through these habits that the young become old and kingly warriors.'
'O Cormac, grandson of Conn,' said Carbery, 'what is the worst thing you have seen?'
'Not hard to tell,' said Cormac. 'Faces of foes in the rout of battle.'
'O Cormac, grandson of Conn,' said Carbery, 'what is the sweetest thing you have heard?'
'Not hard to tell,' said Cormac.
'The shout of triumph after victory,Praise after wages,A lady's invitation to her pillow.'
'The shout of triumph after victory,Praise after wages,A lady's invitation to her pillow.'
'O Cormac, grandson of Conn,' said Carbery, 'how do you distinguish women?'
'Not hard to tell,' said Cormac. 'I distinguish them, but I make no difference among them.
'They are crabbed as constant companions,haughty when visited,lewd when neglected,silly counsellors,greedy of increase;they have tell-tale faces,they are quarrelsome in company,steadfast in hate,forgetful of love,anxious for alliance,accustomed to slander,stubborn in a quarrel,not to be trusted with a secret,ever intent on pilfering,boisterous in their jealousy,ever ready for an excuse,on the pursuit of folly,slanderers of worth,scamping their work,stiff when paying a visit,disdainful of good men,gloomy and stubborn,viragoes in strife,sorrowful in an ale-house,tearful during music,lustful in bed,arrogant and disingenuous,abettors of strife,niggardly with food,rejecting wisdom,eager to make appointments,sulky on a journey,troublesome bedfellows,deaf to instruction,blind to good advice,fatuous in society,craving for delicacies,chary in their presents,languid when solicited,exceeding all bounds in keeping others waiting,tedious talkers,close practitioners,dumb on useful matters,eloquent on trifles.Happy he who does not yield to them!They should be dreaded like fire,they should be feared like wild beasts.Woe to him who humours them!Better to beware of them than to trust them,better to trample upon them than to fondle them,better to crush them than to cherish them.They are waves that drown you,they are fire that burns you,they are two-edged weapons that cut you,they are moths for tenacity,they are serpents for cunning,they are darkness in light,they are bad among the good,they are worse among the bad.'
'They are crabbed as constant companions,haughty when visited,lewd when neglected,silly counsellors,greedy of increase;they have tell-tale faces,they are quarrelsome in company,steadfast in hate,forgetful of love,anxious for alliance,accustomed to slander,stubborn in a quarrel,not to be trusted with a secret,ever intent on pilfering,boisterous in their jealousy,ever ready for an excuse,on the pursuit of folly,slanderers of worth,scamping their work,stiff when paying a visit,disdainful of good men,gloomy and stubborn,viragoes in strife,sorrowful in an ale-house,tearful during music,lustful in bed,arrogant and disingenuous,abettors of strife,niggardly with food,rejecting wisdom,eager to make appointments,sulky on a journey,troublesome bedfellows,deaf to instruction,blind to good advice,fatuous in society,craving for delicacies,chary in their presents,languid when solicited,exceeding all bounds in keeping others waiting,tedious talkers,close practitioners,dumb on useful matters,eloquent on trifles.Happy he who does not yield to them!They should be dreaded like fire,they should be feared like wild beasts.Woe to him who humours them!Better to beware of them than to trust them,better to trample upon them than to fondle them,better to crush them than to cherish them.They are waves that drown you,they are fire that burns you,they are two-edged weapons that cut you,they are moths for tenacity,they are serpents for cunning,they are darkness in light,they are bad among the good,they are worse among the bad.'
'O Cormac, grandson of Conn,' said Carbery, 'what is the worst for the body of man?'
'Not hard to tell,' said Cormac. 'Sitting too long, lying too long, long standing, lifting heavy things, exerting oneself beyond one's strength, running too much, leaping too much, frequent falls, sleeping with one's leg over the bed-rail, gazing at glowing embers, wax, biestings, new ale, bull-flesh, curdles, dry food, bog-water, rising too early, cold, sun, hunger, drinking too much, eating too much, sleeping too much, sinning too much, grief, running up a height, shouting against the wind, drying oneself by a fire, summer-dew, winter-dew, beating ashes, swimming on a full stomach, sleeping on one's back, foolish romping.'
'O Cormac, grandson of Conn,' said Carbery, 'what is the worst pleading and arguing?'
'Not hard to tell,' said Cormac.