O Christ, come to me!With my son take my soul quickly!O great Mary, Mother of God's Son,What shall I do without my son?For Thy Son my spirit and sense are killed.I am become a crazy woman for my son.After the piteous slaughterMy heart is a clot of bloodFrom this day till Doom.
O Christ, come to me!With my son take my soul quickly!O great Mary, Mother of God's Son,What shall I do without my son?For Thy Son my spirit and sense are killed.I am become a crazy woman for my son.After the piteous slaughterMy heart is a clot of bloodFrom this day till Doom.
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.
Marvan, brother of King Guare of Connaught in the seventh century, had renounced the life of a warrior-prince for that of a hermit. The king endeavoured to persuade his brother to return to his court, when the following colloquy took place between them.
Guare
Why, hermit Marvan, sleepest thou notUpon a feather quilt?Why rather sleepest thou abroadUpon a pitchpine floor?
Why, hermit Marvan, sleepest thou notUpon a feather quilt?Why rather sleepest thou abroadUpon a pitchpine floor?
Marvan
I have a shieling in the wood,None knows it save my God:An ash-tree on the hither side, a hazel-bush beyond,A huge old tree encompasses it.Two heath-clad doorposts for support,And a lintel of honeysuckle:The forest around its narrowness shedsIts mast upon fat swine.The size of my shieling tiny, not too tiny,Many are its familiar paths:From its gable a sweet strain singsA she-bird in her cloak of the ousel's hue.The stags of Oakridge leapInto the river of clear banks:Thence red Roiny can be seen,Glorious Muckraw and Moinmoy.[14]A hiding mane of green-barked yewSupports the sky:Beautiful spot! the large green of an oakFronting the storm.A tree of apples—great its bounty!Like a hostel, vast!A pretty bush, thick as a fist, of tiny hazel-nuts,A green mass of branches.A choice pure spring and princely waterTo drink:There spring watercresses, yew-berries,Ivy-bushes thick as a man.Around it tame swine lie down.Goats, pigs,Wild swine, grazing deer,A badger's brood.A peaceful troop, a heavy host of denizens of the soil,A-trysting at my house:To meet them foxes come,How delightful!Fairest princes come to my house,A ready gathering:Pure water, perennial bushes,Salmon, trout.A bush of rowan, black sloes,Dusky blackthorns,Plenty of food, acorns, pure berries,Bare flags.A clutch of eggs, honey, delicious mast,God has sent it:Sweet apples, red whortleberries,And blaeberries.Ale with herbs, a dish of strawberriesOf good taste and colour,Haws, berries of the juniper,Sloes, nuts.A cup with mead of hazel-nut, blue-bells,Quick-growing rushes,Dun oaklets, manes of briar,Goodly sweet tangle.When brilliant summer-time spreads its coloured mantle,Sweet-tasting fragrance!Pignuts, wild marjoram, green leeks,Verdant pureness!The music of the bright red-breasted men,A lovely movement!The strain of the thrush, familiar cuckoosAbove my house.Swarms of bees and chafers, the little musicians of the world,A gentle chorus:Wild geese and ducks, shortly before summer's end,The music of the dark torrent.An active songster, a lively wrenFrom the hazel-bough,Beautiful hooded birds, woodpeckers,A vast multitude!Fair white birds come, herons, seagulls,The cuckoo sings between—No mournful music! dun heathpoultsOut of the russet heather.The lowing of heifers in summer,Brightest of seasons!Not bitter, toilsome over the fertile plain,Delightful, smooth!The voice of the wind against the branchy woodUpon the deep-blue sky:Falls of the river, the note of the swan,Delicious music!The bravest band make cheer to me,Who have not been hired:In the eyes of Christ the ever-young I am no worse offThan thou art.Though thou rejoicest in thy own pleasures,Greater than any wealth;I am grateful for what is given meFrom my good Christ.Without an hour of fighting, without the din of strifeIn my house,Grateful to the Prince who giveth every goodTo me in my shieling.
I have a shieling in the wood,None knows it save my God:An ash-tree on the hither side, a hazel-bush beyond,A huge old tree encompasses it.
Two heath-clad doorposts for support,And a lintel of honeysuckle:The forest around its narrowness shedsIts mast upon fat swine.
The size of my shieling tiny, not too tiny,Many are its familiar paths:From its gable a sweet strain singsA she-bird in her cloak of the ousel's hue.
The stags of Oakridge leapInto the river of clear banks:Thence red Roiny can be seen,Glorious Muckraw and Moinmoy.[14]
A hiding mane of green-barked yewSupports the sky:Beautiful spot! the large green of an oakFronting the storm.
A tree of apples—great its bounty!Like a hostel, vast!A pretty bush, thick as a fist, of tiny hazel-nuts,A green mass of branches.
A choice pure spring and princely waterTo drink:There spring watercresses, yew-berries,Ivy-bushes thick as a man.
Around it tame swine lie down.Goats, pigs,Wild swine, grazing deer,A badger's brood.
A peaceful troop, a heavy host of denizens of the soil,A-trysting at my house:To meet them foxes come,How delightful!
Fairest princes come to my house,A ready gathering:Pure water, perennial bushes,Salmon, trout.
A bush of rowan, black sloes,Dusky blackthorns,Plenty of food, acorns, pure berries,Bare flags.
A clutch of eggs, honey, delicious mast,God has sent it:Sweet apples, red whortleberries,And blaeberries.
Ale with herbs, a dish of strawberriesOf good taste and colour,Haws, berries of the juniper,Sloes, nuts.
A cup with mead of hazel-nut, blue-bells,Quick-growing rushes,Dun oaklets, manes of briar,Goodly sweet tangle.
When brilliant summer-time spreads its coloured mantle,Sweet-tasting fragrance!Pignuts, wild marjoram, green leeks,Verdant pureness!
The music of the bright red-breasted men,A lovely movement!The strain of the thrush, familiar cuckoosAbove my house.
Swarms of bees and chafers, the little musicians of the world,A gentle chorus:Wild geese and ducks, shortly before summer's end,The music of the dark torrent.
An active songster, a lively wrenFrom the hazel-bough,Beautiful hooded birds, woodpeckers,A vast multitude!
Fair white birds come, herons, seagulls,The cuckoo sings between—No mournful music! dun heathpoultsOut of the russet heather.
The lowing of heifers in summer,Brightest of seasons!Not bitter, toilsome over the fertile plain,Delightful, smooth!
The voice of the wind against the branchy woodUpon the deep-blue sky:Falls of the river, the note of the swan,Delicious music!
The bravest band make cheer to me,Who have not been hired:In the eyes of Christ the ever-young I am no worse offThan thou art.
Though thou rejoicest in thy own pleasures,Greater than any wealth;I am grateful for what is given meFrom my good Christ.
Without an hour of fighting, without the din of strifeIn my house,Grateful to the Prince who giveth every goodTo me in my shieling.
Guare
I would give my glorious kingshipWith the share of my father's heritage—To the hour of my death I would forfeit itTo be in thy company, my Marvan.
I would give my glorious kingshipWith the share of my father's heritage—To the hour of my death I would forfeit itTo be in thy company, my Marvan.
FOOTNOTES:[14]Names of well-known plains.
[14]Names of well-known plains.
[14]Names of well-known plains.
A great tempest rages on the Plain of Ler, bold across its high bordersWind has arisen, fierce winter has slain us; it has come across the sea,It has pierced us like a spear.When the wind sets from the east, the spirit of the wave is roused,It desires to rush past us westward to the land where sets the sun,To the wild and broad green sea.When the wind sets from the north, it urges the dark fierce wavesTowards the southern world, surging in strife against the wide sky,Listening to the witching song.When the wind sets from the west across the salt sea of swift currents,It desires to go past us eastward towards the Sun-Tree,Into the broad long-distant sea.When the wind sets from the south across the land of Saxons of mighty shields,The wave strikes the Isle of Scit, it surges up to the summit of Caladnet,And pounds the grey-green mouth of the Shannon.The ocean is in flood, the sea is full, delightful is the home of ships,The wind whirls the sand around the estuary,Swiftly the rudder cleaves the broad sea.With mighty force the wave has tumbled across each broad river-mouth,Wind has come, white winter has slain us, around Cantire, around the land of Alba,Slieve-Dremon pours forth a full stream.Son of the God the Father, with mighty hosts, save me from the horror of fierce tempests!Righteous Lord of the Feast, only save me from the horrid blast,From Hell with furious tempest!
A great tempest rages on the Plain of Ler, bold across its high bordersWind has arisen, fierce winter has slain us; it has come across the sea,It has pierced us like a spear.
When the wind sets from the east, the spirit of the wave is roused,It desires to rush past us westward to the land where sets the sun,To the wild and broad green sea.
When the wind sets from the north, it urges the dark fierce wavesTowards the southern world, surging in strife against the wide sky,Listening to the witching song.
When the wind sets from the west across the salt sea of swift currents,It desires to go past us eastward towards the Sun-Tree,Into the broad long-distant sea.
When the wind sets from the south across the land of Saxons of mighty shields,The wave strikes the Isle of Scit, it surges up to the summit of Caladnet,And pounds the grey-green mouth of the Shannon.
The ocean is in flood, the sea is full, delightful is the home of ships,The wind whirls the sand around the estuary,Swiftly the rudder cleaves the broad sea.
With mighty force the wave has tumbled across each broad river-mouth,Wind has come, white winter has slain us, around Cantire, around the land of Alba,Slieve-Dremon pours forth a full stream.
Son of the God the Father, with mighty hosts, save me from the horror of fierce tempests!Righteous Lord of the Feast, only save me from the horrid blast,From Hell with furious tempest!
Summer has come, healthy and free,Whence the brown wood is aslope;The slender nimble deer leap,And the path of seals is smooth.The cuckoo sings sweet music,Whence there is smooth restful sleep;Gentle birds leap upon the hill,And swift grey stags.Heat has laid hold of the rest of the deer—The lovely cry of curly packs!The white extent of the strand smiles,There the swift sea is.A sound of playful breezes in the topsOf a black oakwood is Drum Daill,The noble hornless herd runs,To whom Cuan-wood is a shelter.Green bursts out on every herb,The top of the green oakwood is bushy,Summer has come, winter has gone,Twisted hollies wound the hound.The blackbird sings a loud strain,To him the live wood is a heritage,The sad angry sea is fallen asleep,The speckled salmon leaps.The sun smiles over every land,—A parting for me from the brood of cares:Hounds bark, stags tryst,Ravens flourish, summer has come!
Summer has come, healthy and free,Whence the brown wood is aslope;The slender nimble deer leap,And the path of seals is smooth.
The cuckoo sings sweet music,Whence there is smooth restful sleep;Gentle birds leap upon the hill,And swift grey stags.
Heat has laid hold of the rest of the deer—The lovely cry of curly packs!The white extent of the strand smiles,There the swift sea is.
A sound of playful breezes in the topsOf a black oakwood is Drum Daill,The noble hornless herd runs,To whom Cuan-wood is a shelter.
Green bursts out on every herb,The top of the green oakwood is bushy,Summer has come, winter has gone,Twisted hollies wound the hound.
The blackbird sings a loud strain,To him the live wood is a heritage,The sad angry sea is fallen asleep,The speckled salmon leaps.
The sun smiles over every land,—A parting for me from the brood of cares:Hounds bark, stags tryst,Ravens flourish, summer has come!
Summer-time, season supreme!Splendid is colour then.Blackbirds sing a full layIf there be a slender shaft of day.The dust-coloured cuckoo calls aloud:Welcome, splendid summer!The bitterness of bad weather is past,The boughs of the wood are a thicket.Panic startles the heart of the deer,The smooth sea runs apace—Season when ocean sinks asleep,Blossom covers the world.Bees with puny strength carryA goodly burden, the harvest of blossoms;Up the mountain-side kine take with them mud,The ant makes a rich meal.The harp of the forest sounds music,The sail gathers—perfect peace;Colour has settled on every height,Haze on the lake of full waters.The corncrake, a strenuous bard, discourses,The lofty cold waterfall singsA welcome to the warm pool—The talk of the rushes has come.Light swallows dart aloft,Loud melody encircles the hill,The soft rich mast buds,The stuttering quagmire prattles.The peat-bog is as the raven's coat,The loud cuckoo bids welcome,The speckled fish leaps—Strong is the bound of the swift warrior.Man flourishes, the maiden budsIn her fair strong pride.Perfect each forest from top to ground,Perfect each great stately plain.Delightful is the season's splendour,Rough winter has gone:Every fruitful wood shines white,A joyous peace is summer.A flock of birds settlesIn the midst of meadows,The green field rustles,Wherein is a brawling white stream.A wild longing is on you to race horses,The ranked host is ranged around:A bright shaft has been shot into the land,So that the water-flag is gold beneath it.A timorous, tiny, persistent little fellowSings at the top of his voice,The lark sings clear tidings:Surpassing summer-time of delicate hues!
Summer-time, season supreme!Splendid is colour then.Blackbirds sing a full layIf there be a slender shaft of day.
The dust-coloured cuckoo calls aloud:Welcome, splendid summer!The bitterness of bad weather is past,The boughs of the wood are a thicket.
Panic startles the heart of the deer,The smooth sea runs apace—Season when ocean sinks asleep,Blossom covers the world.
Bees with puny strength carryA goodly burden, the harvest of blossoms;Up the mountain-side kine take with them mud,The ant makes a rich meal.
The harp of the forest sounds music,The sail gathers—perfect peace;Colour has settled on every height,Haze on the lake of full waters.
The corncrake, a strenuous bard, discourses,The lofty cold waterfall singsA welcome to the warm pool—The talk of the rushes has come.
Light swallows dart aloft,Loud melody encircles the hill,The soft rich mast buds,The stuttering quagmire prattles.
The peat-bog is as the raven's coat,The loud cuckoo bids welcome,The speckled fish leaps—Strong is the bound of the swift warrior.
Man flourishes, the maiden budsIn her fair strong pride.Perfect each forest from top to ground,Perfect each great stately plain.
Delightful is the season's splendour,Rough winter has gone:Every fruitful wood shines white,A joyous peace is summer.
A flock of birds settlesIn the midst of meadows,The green field rustles,Wherein is a brawling white stream.
A wild longing is on you to race horses,The ranked host is ranged around:A bright shaft has been shot into the land,So that the water-flag is gold beneath it.
A timorous, tiny, persistent little fellowSings at the top of his voice,The lark sings clear tidings:Surpassing summer-time of delicate hues!
My tidings for you: the stag bells,Winter snows, summer is gone.Wind high and cold, low the sun,Short his course, sea running high.Deep-red the bracken, its shape all gone—The wild-goose has raised his wonted cry.Cold has caught the wings of birds;Season of ice—these are my tidings.
My tidings for you: the stag bells,Winter snows, summer is gone.
Wind high and cold, low the sun,Short his course, sea running high.
Deep-red the bracken, its shape all gone—The wild-goose has raised his wonted cry.
Cold has caught the wings of birds;Season of ice—these are my tidings.
Cold, cold!Cold to-night is broad Moylurg,Higher the snow than the mountain-range,The deer cannot get at their food.Cold till Doom!The storm has spread over all:A river is each furrow upon the slope,Each ford a full pool.A great tidal sea is each loch,A full loch is each pool:Horses cannot get over the ford of Ross,No more can two feet get there.The fish of Ireland are a-roaming,There is no strand which the wave does not pound,Not a town there is in the land,Not a bell is heard, no crane talks.The wolves of Cuan-wood getNeither rest nor sleep in their lair,The little wren cannot findShelter in her nest on the slope of Lon.Keen wind and cold iceHas burst upon the little company of birds,The blackbird cannot get a lee to her liking,Shelter for its side in Cuan-wood.Cosy our pot on its hook,Crazy the hut on the slope of Lon:The snow has crushed the wood here,Toilsome to climb up Ben-bo.Glenn Rye's ancient birdFrom the bitter wind gets grief;Great her misery and her pain,The ice will get into her mouth.From flock and from down to rise—Take it to heart!—were folly for thee:Ice in heaps on every ford—That is why I say 'cold'!
Cold, cold!Cold to-night is broad Moylurg,Higher the snow than the mountain-range,The deer cannot get at their food.
Cold till Doom!The storm has spread over all:A river is each furrow upon the slope,Each ford a full pool.
A great tidal sea is each loch,A full loch is each pool:Horses cannot get over the ford of Ross,No more can two feet get there.
The fish of Ireland are a-roaming,There is no strand which the wave does not pound,Not a town there is in the land,Not a bell is heard, no crane talks.
The wolves of Cuan-wood getNeither rest nor sleep in their lair,The little wren cannot findShelter in her nest on the slope of Lon.
Keen wind and cold iceHas burst upon the little company of birds,The blackbird cannot get a lee to her liking,Shelter for its side in Cuan-wood.
Cosy our pot on its hook,Crazy the hut on the slope of Lon:The snow has crushed the wood here,Toilsome to climb up Ben-bo.
Glenn Rye's ancient birdFrom the bitter wind gets grief;Great her misery and her pain,The ice will get into her mouth.
From flock and from down to rise—Take it to heart!—were folly for thee:Ice in heaps on every ford—That is why I say 'cold'!
Arran of the many stags,The sea strikes against its shoulder,Isle in which companies are fed,Ridge on which blue spears are reddened.Skittish deer are on her peaks,Delicious berries on her manes,Cool water in her rivers,Mast upon her dun oaks.Greyhounds are in it and beagles,Blackberries and sloes of the dark blackthorn,Her dwellings close against the woods,Deer scattered about her oak-woods.Gleaning of purple upon her rocks,Faultless grass upon her slopes,Over her fair shapely cragsNoise of dappled fawns a-skipping.Smooth is her level land, fat are her swine,Bright are her fields,Her nuts upon the tops of her hazel-wood,Long galleys sailing past her.Delightful it is when the fair season comes,Trout under the brinks of her rivers,Seagulls answer each other round her white cliff,Delightful at all times is Arran!
Arran of the many stags,The sea strikes against its shoulder,Isle in which companies are fed,Ridge on which blue spears are reddened.
Skittish deer are on her peaks,Delicious berries on her manes,Cool water in her rivers,Mast upon her dun oaks.
Greyhounds are in it and beagles,Blackberries and sloes of the dark blackthorn,Her dwellings close against the woods,Deer scattered about her oak-woods.
Gleaning of purple upon her rocks,Faultless grass upon her slopes,Over her fair shapely cragsNoise of dappled fawns a-skipping.
Smooth is her level land, fat are her swine,Bright are her fields,Her nuts upon the tops of her hazel-wood,Long galleys sailing past her.
Delightful it is when the fair season comes,Trout under the brinks of her rivers,Seagulls answer each other round her white cliff,Delightful at all times is Arran!
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.
In the battle of Aidne, Crede, the daughter of King Guare of Aidne, beheld Dinertach of the Hy Fidgenti, who had come to the help of Guare, with seventeen wounds upon his breast. Then she fell in love with him. He died, and was buried in the cemetery of Colman's Church.
These are arrows that murder sleepAt every hour in the bitter-cold night:Pangs of love throughout the dayFor the company of the man from Roiny.Great love of a man from another landHas come to me beyond all else:It has taken my bloom, no colour is left,It does not let me rest.Sweeter than songs was his speech,Save holy adoration of Heaven's King;He was a glorious flame, no boastful word fell from his lips,A slender mate for a maid's side.When I was a child I was bashful,I was not given to going to trysts:Since I have come to a wayward age,My wantonness has beguiled me.I have every good with Guare,The King of cold Aidne:But my mind has fallen away from my peopleTo the meadow at Irluachair.There is chanting in the meadow of glorious AidneAround the sides of Colman's Church:Glorious flame, now sunk into the grave—Dinertach was his name.It wrings my pitiable heart, O chaste Christ,What has fallen to my lot:These are arrows that murder sleepAt every hour in the bitter-cold night.
These are arrows that murder sleepAt every hour in the bitter-cold night:Pangs of love throughout the dayFor the company of the man from Roiny.
Great love of a man from another landHas come to me beyond all else:It has taken my bloom, no colour is left,It does not let me rest.
Sweeter than songs was his speech,Save holy adoration of Heaven's King;He was a glorious flame, no boastful word fell from his lips,A slender mate for a maid's side.
When I was a child I was bashful,I was not given to going to trysts:Since I have come to a wayward age,My wantonness has beguiled me.
I have every good with Guare,The King of cold Aidne:But my mind has fallen away from my peopleTo the meadow at Irluachair.
There is chanting in the meadow of glorious AidneAround the sides of Colman's Church:Glorious flame, now sunk into the grave—Dinertach was his name.
It wrings my pitiable heart, O chaste Christ,What has fallen to my lot:These are arrows that murder sleepAt every hour in the bitter-cold night.
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.
Liadin of Corkaguiney, a poetess, went visiting into the country of Connaught. There Curithir, himself a poet, made an ale-feast for her. 'Why should not we two unite, Liadin?' saith Curithir. 'A son of us two would be famous.' 'Do not let us do so now,' saith she, 'lest my round of visiting be ruined for me. If you will come for me again at my home, I shall go with you.' That fell so. Southward he went, and a single gillie behind him with his poet's dress in a bag upon his back, while Curithir himself was in a poor garb. There were spear-heads in the bag also. He went till he was at the well beside Liadin's court. There he took his crimson dress about him, and the heads were put upon their shafts, and he stood brandishing them.
Meanwhile Liadin had made a vow of chastity; but faithful to her word she went with him. They proceed to the monastery of Clonfert, where they put themselves under the spiritual direction of Cummin, son of Fiachna. He first imposes a slight probation upon them, allowing them to converse without seeing each other. Then, challenged by Liadin, he permits them a perilous freedom. In the result he banishes Curithir, who thenceforward renounces love and becomes a pilgrim. When Liadin still seeks him he crosses the sea. She returns to the scene of their penance, and shortly dies. When all is over, Cummin lovingly lays the stone where she had mourned her love, and upon which she died, over the grave of the unhappy maiden.
Curithir
Of lateSince I parted from Liadin,Long as a month is every day,Long as a year each month.
Of lateSince I parted from Liadin,Long as a month is every day,Long as a year each month.
Liadin
JoylessThe bargain I have made!The heart of him I loved I wrung.'Twas madnessNot to do his pleasure,Were there not the fear of Heaven's King.'Twas a trifleThat wrung Curithir's heart against me:To him great was my gentleness.A short while I wasIn the company of Curithir:Sweet was my intimacy with him.The music of the forestWould sing to me when with Curithir,Together with the voice of the purple sea.Would thatNothing of all I have doneShould have wrung his heart against me!Conceal it not!He was my heart's love,Whatever else I might love.A roaring flameHas dissolved this heart of mine—Without him for certain it cannot live.
JoylessThe bargain I have made!The heart of him I loved I wrung.
'Twas madnessNot to do his pleasure,Were there not the fear of Heaven's King.
'Twas a trifleThat wrung Curithir's heart against me:To him great was my gentleness.
A short while I wasIn the company of Curithir:Sweet was my intimacy with him.
The music of the forestWould sing to me when with Curithir,Together with the voice of the purple sea.
Would thatNothing of all I have doneShould have wrung his heart against me!
Conceal it not!He was my heart's love,Whatever else I might love.
A roaring flameHas dissolved this heart of mine—Without him for certain it cannot live.
Tuirn son of Torna
When we used to go to the gathering with Echu's[15]son,Yellow as a bright primrose was the hair upon the head of Cairenn's[16]son.
When we used to go to the gathering with Echu's[15]son,Yellow as a bright primrose was the hair upon the head of Cairenn's[16]son.
Torna
Well hast thou spoken, dear son. A bondmaid should be given theeFor the sake of the hair which thou hast likened to the colour of the crown of the primrose.Eyelashes black, delicate, equal in beauty, and dark eyebrows—The crown of the woad, a bright hyacinth, that was the colour of his pupils.
Well hast thou spoken, dear son. A bondmaid should be given theeFor the sake of the hair which thou hast likened to the colour of the crown of the primrose.
Eyelashes black, delicate, equal in beauty, and dark eyebrows—The crown of the woad, a bright hyacinth, that was the colour of his pupils.
Tuirn son of Torna
The colour of his cheeks at all seasons, even and symmetrical:The fox-glove, the blood of a calf—a feast without a flaw! the crown of the forest in May.
The colour of his cheeks at all seasons, even and symmetrical:The fox-glove, the blood of a calf—a feast without a flaw! the crown of the forest in May.
Torna
His white teeth, his red lips that never reproved in anger—His shape like a fiery blaze overtopping the warriors of Erin.Like the moon, like the sun, like a fiery beacon was the splendour of Niall:Like a dragon-ship from the wave without a flaw was Niall, Echu's son.
His white teeth, his red lips that never reproved in anger—His shape like a fiery blaze overtopping the warriors of Erin.
Like the moon, like the sun, like a fiery beacon was the splendour of Niall:Like a dragon-ship from the wave without a flaw was Niall, Echu's son.
Tuirn son of Torna
This is a yearnful music, the wail of every mouth in Kerry—It increases my grief in my house for the death of Muredach's[17]grandson.Saxons will ravage here in the east, noble men of Erin and Alba,After the death of Niall, Echu's noble son—it is a bitter cause of reproach.
This is a yearnful music, the wail of every mouth in Kerry—It increases my grief in my house for the death of Muredach's[17]grandson.
Saxons will ravage here in the east, noble men of Erin and Alba,After the death of Niall, Echu's noble son—it is a bitter cause of reproach.
Torna
Saxons with overwhelming cries of war, hosts of Lombards from the continent,From the hour in which the king fell Gael and Pict are in a sore straight.
Saxons with overwhelming cries of war, hosts of Lombards from the continent,From the hour in which the king fell Gael and Pict are in a sore straight.
Tuirn son of Torna
Upon Tara's rampart his fair hair shone against his ruddy face:Like unto the colour of his hair is red gold or the yellow iris.
Upon Tara's rampart his fair hair shone against his ruddy face:Like unto the colour of his hair is red gold or the yellow iris.
Torna
'Twas great delight, 'twas great peace to be in the company of my dear foster-son,[18]When with Echu's son—it was no small thing—we used to go to the gathering.
'Twas great delight, 'twas great peace to be in the company of my dear foster-son,[18]When with Echu's son—it was no small thing—we used to go to the gathering.
Tuirn son of Torna
Darling hero of the white shoulder! whose tribes are vast, a beloved host:Every man was under protection when we used to go to forgather with him.
Darling hero of the white shoulder! whose tribes are vast, a beloved host:Every man was under protection when we used to go to forgather with him.
FOOTNOTES:[15]Niall's father.[16]Niall's mother.[17]Niall's grandfather.[18]i.e.Niall.
[15]Niall's father.
[15]Niall's father.
[16]Niall's mother.
[16]Niall's mother.
[17]Niall's grandfather.
[17]Niall's grandfather.
[18]i.e.Niall.
[18]i.e.Niall.
Hail, sword of Carroll! Oft hast thou been in the great woof of war,Oft giving battle, beheading high princes.Oft hast thou gone a-raiding in the hands of kings of great judgments,Oft hast thou divided the spoil with a good king worthy of thee.Oft where men of Leinster were hast thou been in a white hand,Oft hast thou been among kings, oft among great bands.Many were the kings that wielded thee in fight,Many a shield hast thou cleft in battle, many a head and chest, many a fair skin.Forty years without sorrow Enna of the noble hosts had thee,Never wast thou in a strait, but in the hands of a very fierce king.Enna gave thee—'twas no niggardly gift—to his own son, to Dunling,For thirty years in his possession, at last thou broughtest ruin to him.Many a king upon a noble steed possessed thee unto Dermot the kingly, the fierce:Sixteen years was the time Dermot had thee.At the feast of Allen Dermot the hardy-born bestowed thee,Dermot, the noble king, gave thee to the man of Mairg, to Murigan.Forty years stoutly thou wast in the hand of Allen's high-king,With Murigan of mighty deeds thou never wast a year without battle.In Wexford Murigan, the King of Vikings, gave thee to Carroll:While he was upon the yellow earth Carroll gave thee to none.Thy bright point was a crimson point in the battle of Odba of the Foreigners,When thou leftest Aed Finnliath on his back in the battle of Odba of the noble routs.Crimson was thy edge, it was seen; at Belach Moon thou wast proved,In the valorous battle of Alvy's Plain throughout which the fighting raged.Before thee the goodly host broke on a Thursday at Dun Ochtair,When Aed the fierce and brilliant fell upon the hillside above Leafin.Before thee the host broke on the day when Kelly was slain,Flannagan's son, with numbers of troops, in high lofty great Tara.Before thee they ebbed southwards in the battle of the Boyne of the rough feats,When Cnogva fell, the lance of valour, at seeing thee, for dread of thee.Thou wast furious, thou wast not weak, heroic was thy swift force,When Ailill Frosach of Fál[19]fell in the front of the onset.Thou never hadst a day of defeat with Carroll of the beautiful garths.He swore no lying oath, he went not against his word.Thou never hadst a day of sorrow, many a night thou hadst abroad;Thou hadst awaiting thee many a king with many a battle.O sword of the kings of mighty fires, do not fear to be astray!Thou shalt find thy man of craft, a lord worthy of thee.Who shall henceforth possess thee, or to whom wilt thou deal ruin?From the day that Carroll departed, with whom wilt thou be bedded?Thou shalt not be neglected until thou come to the house of glorious Naas:Where Finn of the feasts is they will hail thee with 'welcome.'
Hail, sword of Carroll! Oft hast thou been in the great woof of war,Oft giving battle, beheading high princes.
Oft hast thou gone a-raiding in the hands of kings of great judgments,Oft hast thou divided the spoil with a good king worthy of thee.
Oft where men of Leinster were hast thou been in a white hand,Oft hast thou been among kings, oft among great bands.
Many were the kings that wielded thee in fight,Many a shield hast thou cleft in battle, many a head and chest, many a fair skin.
Forty years without sorrow Enna of the noble hosts had thee,Never wast thou in a strait, but in the hands of a very fierce king.
Enna gave thee—'twas no niggardly gift—to his own son, to Dunling,For thirty years in his possession, at last thou broughtest ruin to him.
Many a king upon a noble steed possessed thee unto Dermot the kingly, the fierce:Sixteen years was the time Dermot had thee.
At the feast of Allen Dermot the hardy-born bestowed thee,Dermot, the noble king, gave thee to the man of Mairg, to Murigan.
Forty years stoutly thou wast in the hand of Allen's high-king,With Murigan of mighty deeds thou never wast a year without battle.
In Wexford Murigan, the King of Vikings, gave thee to Carroll:While he was upon the yellow earth Carroll gave thee to none.
Thy bright point was a crimson point in the battle of Odba of the Foreigners,When thou leftest Aed Finnliath on his back in the battle of Odba of the noble routs.
Crimson was thy edge, it was seen; at Belach Moon thou wast proved,In the valorous battle of Alvy's Plain throughout which the fighting raged.
Before thee the goodly host broke on a Thursday at Dun Ochtair,When Aed the fierce and brilliant fell upon the hillside above Leafin.
Before thee the host broke on the day when Kelly was slain,Flannagan's son, with numbers of troops, in high lofty great Tara.
Before thee they ebbed southwards in the battle of the Boyne of the rough feats,When Cnogva fell, the lance of valour, at seeing thee, for dread of thee.
Thou wast furious, thou wast not weak, heroic was thy swift force,When Ailill Frosach of Fál[19]fell in the front of the onset.
Thou never hadst a day of defeat with Carroll of the beautiful garths.He swore no lying oath, he went not against his word.
Thou never hadst a day of sorrow, many a night thou hadst abroad;Thou hadst awaiting thee many a king with many a battle.
O sword of the kings of mighty fires, do not fear to be astray!Thou shalt find thy man of craft, a lord worthy of thee.
Who shall henceforth possess thee, or to whom wilt thou deal ruin?From the day that Carroll departed, with whom wilt thou be bedded?
Thou shalt not be neglected until thou come to the house of glorious Naas:Where Finn of the feasts is they will hail thee with 'welcome.'
FOOTNOTES:[19]A name for Ireland.
[19]A name for Ireland.
Aed of Ailech, beloved he was to me,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!Seven years I had with the King of Ross,Delightful was my time with the lord of Slemish,Though I were but one month with the king in the south,I know that it would weary me.Many honours the king gave to me,To pleasure me he brought down stags:A herd of horses he gave to me in my day,The great son of the woman from Magh Ai.Alas, O Comgall, master of harmonies,That the son of Domnaill should be food for worms!Alas that his face should be on the ground!Alas for noble Ailech without Aed!From the day that great Aed was slainFew men on earth but are in want:Sincehehas died that was another Lugh,[22]It were right to shed tears of blood.Tara is deprived of her benefactor,A blight is upon his kindred,Torture is put upon the rays of the sun,Glorious Erin is without Aed.Fair weather shines not on the mountain-side,Fine-clustering fruit is not enjoyed,The gloom of every night is darkSince earth was put over Aed.Ye folk of great Armagh,With whom the son of the chief lies on his back,Cause of reproach will come of itThat your grave is open before Aed.In the battle of Craeb Tholcha in the northI left my fair companions behind!Alas for the fruit of the heavy bloodshedWhich severed Eochaid and Aed!
Aed of Ailech, beloved he was to me,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!
Seven years I had with the King of Ross,Delightful was my time with the lord of Slemish,Though I were but one month with the king in the south,I know that it would weary me.
Many honours the king gave to me,To pleasure me he brought down stags:A herd of horses he gave to me in my day,The great son of the woman from Magh Ai.
Alas, O Comgall, master of harmonies,That the son of Domnaill should be food for worms!Alas that his face should be on the ground!Alas for noble Ailech without Aed!
From the day that great Aed was slainFew men on earth but are in want:Sincehehas died that was another Lugh,[22]It were right to shed tears of blood.
Tara is deprived of her benefactor,A blight is upon his kindred,Torture is put upon the rays of the sun,Glorious Erin is without Aed.
Fair weather shines not on the mountain-side,Fine-clustering fruit is not enjoyed,The gloom of every night is darkSince earth was put over Aed.
Ye folk of great Armagh,With whom the son of the chief lies on his back,Cause of reproach will come of itThat your grave is open before Aed.
In the battle of Craeb Tholcha in the northI left my fair companions behind!Alas for the fruit of the heavy bloodshedWhich 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.
[20]Who had fallen in the battle of Craeb Tholcha,a.d.1004.
[20]Who had fallen in the battle of Craeb Tholcha,a.d.1004.
[21]King of South Leinster.
[21]King of South Leinster.
[22]A famous mythical hero.
[22]A famous mythical hero.