T.
he old poet spake to the young poet:—
"Who is this sage around
 whom is wrapped the robe of splendour?
 and whence comes he?"
The young poet answered:
"I spring from the heel of a wise man,
 From the meeting-place of wisdom I come forth;
 From the place where goodness dwells serene.
 From the red sunrise of the dawn I come,
 Where grow the nine hazels of poetic art.
 From the wide circuits of splendour
 Out of which, according to their judgment, truth is weighed.
 There is a land where righteousness is instilled,
 And where falsehood wanes into twilight.
There is a land of varied colours[82]
 Where poems are bathed anew.
 And thou, O well-spring of Knowledge, whence comest thou?"
"Well can the answer be given:
 I move along the columns of age,
 Along the streams of inspiration,
 Along the elf-mound of Nechtan's wife,
 Along the forearm of the wife of Nuada,[83]
 Along the fair land of knowledge
 The bright country of the sun;
 Along the hidden land which by day the moon inhabits;
 Along the first beginnings of life.
 I demand of thee, O wise youth, what it is that lies before thee?"
"That I can answer thee.
 I travel towards the plain of age,
 Through the mountain-heights of youth.
 I go forward to the hunting-grounds of old age,
 Into the sunny dwelling of a king (death?),
 Into the abode of the tomb;
 Between burial and judgment,
 Between battles and their horrors
 Among Tethra's mighty men.[84]
 And thou, O master of Wisdom, what lies before thee?"
"I pass into the lofty heights of honour,
 Into the community of knowledge,
 Into the fair country inhabited of noble sages,
 Into the haven of prosperities,
 Into the assembly of the king's son.
 Into contempt of upstarts,
 Into the slopes of death where great honour lies.
 O Son of Instructions, whose son art thou?"
"I am the son of Poetry,
 Poetry son of investigation,
 Investigation son of meditation,
 Meditation son of lore,
 Lore son of research,
 Research son of enquiry,
 Enquiry son of wide knowledge,
 Knowledge son of good sense,
 Good sense son of understanding,
 Understanding son of wisdom,
 Wisdom son of the three gods of Poetry.
 O Fount of Wisdom, of whom art thou the son?"
"I am the son of the man who has lived, but has never been born;
 Of him who was buried in the womb of his own mother;[85]
 Of him who was baptized after his death.[86]
 He of all living, was first betrothed to death,
 His is the first name uttered by the living,
 His the name lamented by all the dead:
 Adam, the High One, is his name."[87]

FOOTNOTES:

[82] The colours denote the qualities of the inhabitants.

[83] Two poetic names for the River Boyne; Nuada was the deified ancestor of the Kings of Leinster. In the Boyne dwelt the "salmon of knowledge," which the poet must consume, and at its source grew the hazels of poetic inspiration. Its tumuli were believed to be the haunts of gods or fairies.

[84] Tethra was god of the assemblies of the dead.

[85] Explained in the gloss to mean "the Earth."

[86] i.e. "in the Passion of Christ."

[87] The above translation is founded on Dr. Whitley Stokes edition of the Colloquy (see note, p. 349).

AMORGEN'S SONG

Amorgen sang:
I am the wind on the sea (for depth);
 I am a wave of the deep (for weight);
 I am the sound of the sea (for horror);
 I am a stag of seven points (? for strength);
 I am a hawk on a cliff (for deftness);
 I am a tear of the sun (for clearness);
 I am the fairest of herbs;
 I am a boar for valour;
 I am a salmon in a pool (i.e. the pools of knowledge);
 I am a lake on a plain (for extent);
 I am a hill of Poetry (and knowledge);
 I am a battle-waging spear with trophies (for spoiling or hewing);
 I am a god, who fashions smoke from magic fire for a head (to slay therewith);
 (Who, but I, will make clear every question?)
 Who, but myself, knows the assemblies of the stone-house[88] on the mountain of Slieve Mis?
 Who (but the Poet) knows in what place the sun goes down?
Who seven times sought the fairy-mounds without fear?
 Who declares them, the ages of the moon?
 Who brings his kine from Tethra's house?[89]
 Who segregated Tethra's kine?
 (For whom will the fish of the laughing sea be making welcome, but for me?)
 Who shapeth weapons from hill to hill (wave to wave, letter to letter, point to point)?
Invoke, O people of the waves,[90] invoke the satirist, that he may make an incantation for thee!
 I, the druid, who set out letters in Ogham;
 I, who part combatants;
 I, who approach the fairy-mounds to seek a cunning satirist, that he may compose chants with me.
 I am the wind on the sea.

FOOTNOTES:

[88] Or dolmen? Professor John MacNeill, on whose readings the above is founded, notes that a dolmen near Slieve Mis in Co. Antrim is called Ticloy (toigh cloiche), and in the local Scotch dialect "the stane-hoose."

[89] See note, p. 349.

[90] i.e. the fish, here also called "Tethra's kine"; this poem is generally followed by an incantation for good fishing, to which these phrases doubtless refer.

THE SONG OF CHILDBIRTH

O
Ness, let all men stand,
 The hour of thy peril is at hand;
 Pale daughter of old Eochad Buidhe the mild
 We rise to greet thy child!
 Wife of the ruddy palms
 Let not thy mind be filled with terror's qualms;
 The head of hosts, the one
 Whom thousands shall extol, shall be thy son.
In the same timely hour upon this earth
 He and the King of the World have their birth;
 Through the long ages' gloom
 Now and to the day of doom
 Praises shall echo through the realm of life.
 Heroes, at sight of him, cease their strife;
 Hostages they twain shall never be
 The Christ and he.
On the plain of Inisfail he shall come forth,
 On the flagstone of the meadow to the North.
Hostages every battle-chief to him will send,
 Through the great world his glory will extend;
 The king of grace is he,
 The Hound of Ulster he;
 But and if he falls,
 Darkness and woe descend on Erin's halls.
Conchobhar, son of Ness "ungentle," is his name;
 Raids and red routs his valour will proclaim.
 There he will find his death
 Where the expiring breath
 Of the suffering God his vengeful sword demands,
 In the dark hour upon the Holy Lands;[91]
 Shining his red sword's track,
 Over the sloping plain of Liam's back.

FOOTNOTES:

[91] King Conchobhar was believed to be born in the same year as Jesus Christ, and to have met his death in endeavouring to avenge the death of Christ.

GREETING TO THE NEW-BORN BABE

Welcome, little stranger,
 Born in pain and danger,
 He will be our gracious Lord,
 Son of gentle Cathva.
Son of gentle Cathva,
 From the fort of Brug na Brat;
 Son of valorous Ness the Young,
 My son, and my grandson.
My son, and my grandson,
 Of the world the shining One,
 He of old Rath Line the king,
 Poet-prince, my offspring.
Poet-prince, my offspring,
 Overseas thy hosts thou wilt fling;
 Little songster from the Brug,
 Little kid, we welcome you.

WHAT IS LOVE?

From the "Wooing of Etain."

O
love much-enduring through a year is my love,
 It is grief close-hidden,[92]
 It is stretching of strength beyond its bounds,
 It is (fills?) the four quarters of the world;
 It is the highest height of heaven;
 It is breaking of the neck,
 It is battle with a spectre,
 It is drowning with water,
 It is a race against heaven,
 It is champion-feats beneath the sea,
 It is wooing the echo;
 So is my love, and my passion, and my devotion to her to whom I gave them.

FOOTNOTES:

[92] Lit. "beneath the skin."

SUMMONS TO CUCHULAIN

From the "Sickbed of Cuchulain."

Arise, O Champion of Ulster!
 In joyous health mayest thou awake;
 Look thou on Macha's King, beloved,
 Thy heavy slumber likes him not.
Behold his shoulder full of brightness,
 Behold his horns for battle-array,[93]
 Behold his chariots sweeping the glens,
 Behold the movement of his chess-warriors.[94]
Behold his champions in their might,
 Behold his maiden-troop, tall and gentle,
 Behold his kings—a storm of war—
 Behold his honourable queens.
Look forth! the winter has begun!
 Note thou each wonder in its turn,
 Behold, for it avails thee well,
 Its cold, its length, its want of colour!
This heavy slumber is decay, it is not good;
 Exhaustion from unequal strife;
 Repose too lengthened is "a drop when one is filled,"[95]
 Weakness like this is next to death.[96]
Awake from sleep, the peace which drinkers seek,
 With mighty ardour throw it off;
 Many smooth speeches woo thee here,
 Arise, O Champion of Ulster!

FOOTNOTES:

[93] Or "his drinking-horns filled with ale" according to another reading.

[94] Lit. "chess-Fians."

[95] This seems to be a proverb or saw.

[96] Tanaisi d'éc, lit. "second to death." The "tanist" stood next to the chief, and was his successor.

LAEGH'S DESCRIPTION OF
FAIRY-LAND

From the "Sickbed of Cuchulain."

I came with joyous sprightly steps,
 —Wondrous the place, though its fame was known,—
 Till I reached the cairn where, 'mid scores of bands,
 I found Labra of the flowing hair.
I found him seated at the cairn,
 Ringed round by thousands of weaponed men,
 Yellow the hair on him, beauteous its hue,
 A ball of ruddy gold enclosing it.
After a time he recognised me,
 In the purple, five-folded mantle,
 He spake to me, "Wilt thou come with me
 To the house wherein is Failbe Fand?"
Two kings are in the house,
 Failbe Fand and Labra,
 Three fifties surround each one of them,
 That the full sum of the one house.
Fifty beds on the right side,
 With fifty nobles (?) in them,
 Fifty beds on the left side,
 With fifty in them also.
Copper are the borders of the beds,
 White the pillars overlaid with gold;
 This the candle in their midst,
 A lustrous precious stone.
At the door westward
 In the place where sets the sun,
 Stand a herd of grey palfreys, dappled their manes,
 And another herd purple-brown.
There stand at the Eastern door
 Three ancient trees of purple pure,
 From them the sweet, everlasting birds
 Call to the lads of the kingly rath.
At the door of the liss there is a tree,
 Out of which there sounds sweet harmony,
 A tree of silver with the shining of the sun upon it,
 Its lustrous splendour like to gold.
Three twenties of trees are there,
 Their crests swing together but do not clash,
 From each of those trees three hundred are fed
 With fruits many-tasted, that have cast their rind.
There is a well in the noble (?) sídh;
 There are thrice fifty mantles of various hue,
 And a clasp of gold, all lustrous,
 Holds the corner[97] of each coloured cloak.
A vat there is of heady mead
 Being dispensed to the household;
 Still it lasts, in unchanged wise,
 Full to the brim, everlastingly.
There is a maiden in the noble (?) house
 Surpassing the women of Éire,
 She steps forward, with yellow hair,
 Beautiful, many-gifted she.
Her discourse with each in turn
 Is beauteous, is marvellous,
 The heart of each one breaks
 With longing and love for her.
The noble maiden said:
 "Who is that youth whom we do not know?
 If thou be he, come hither awhile—
 The gillie of the Man from Murthemne."[98]
I went to her slowly, slowly,
 Fear for my honour seized me,
 She asked me, "Comes he hither,
 The famous son of Dechtire?"
(Laegh addresses Cuchulain)
Alas, that he[99] went not long ago,
 And every person asking it,
 That he might see, as it is,
 The mighty house that I have seen.
If all Éire were mine,
 And the kingdom of Magh Breg of gold,
 I would give it (no small test)
 Could I frequent the place where I have been!

FOOTNOTES:

[97] Lit. "ear."

[98] i.e. Cuchulain, whose home-lands lay in the Plain of Murthemne, in the district of Co. Louth; Laegh was Cuchulain's charioteer.

[99] i.e. Cuchulain himself.

THE LAMENTATION OF FAND WHEN SHE IS
ABOUT TO LEAVE CUCHULAIN

From the "Sickbed of Cuchulain."

I.
t is I who must go on this journey,
 Ou great necessity were best for me;
 Though another should have an equal fame
 Happier for me could I remain.
Happier it were for me to be here,
 Subject to thee without reproach,
 Than to go,—though strange it may seem to thee,—
 To the royal seat of Aed Abrat.
The man is thine, O Emer,
 He has broken from me, O noble wife,
 No less, the thing that my hand cannot reach,
 I am fated to desire it.
Many men were seeking me
 Both in shelters and in secret places;
 My tryst was never made with them,
 Because I myself was high-minded.
Joyless she who gives love to one
 Who does not heed her love;
 It were better for her to be destroyed
 If she be not loved as she loves.
With fifty women hast thou come hither,
 Noble Emer, of the yellow locks,
 To overthrow Fand, it were not well
 To kill her in her misery.
Three times fifty have I there,
 —Beautiful, marriageable women,—
 Together with me in the fort:
 They will not abandon me.

MIDER'S CALL TO FAIRY-LAND

From the "Wooing of Etain."

O Befind, wilt thou come with me,
 To the wondrous land of melody?
 The crown of their head like the primrose hair,
 Their bodies below as the colour of snow.
There in that land is no "mine" or "thine,"
 White the teeth there, eyebrows black,
 Brilliant the eyes—great is the host—
 And each cheek the hue of the foxglove.
How heady soever the ale of Inis Fál
 More intoxicating is the ale of the Great Land;
 A marvel among lands the land of which I speak,
 No young man there enters on old age.
Like the purple of the plains each neck,
 Like the ousel's egg the colour of the eye;
 Though fair to the sight are the Plains of Fál
 They are a desert to him who has known the Great Plain.
Warm, sweet streams across the country,
 Choice of mead and wine,
 Distinguished beings who know no stain,
 Conception without sin, without lust.
We behold everyone on every side,
 And none beholds us;
 The gloom of Adam's transgression it is
 Conceals us from their reckoning.
O Woman, if thou come among my strong people,
 A golden top will crown thy head;
 Fresh swine-flesh, new milk and ale for drink
 Thou shalt have with me, O woman fair!

THE SONG OF THE FAIRIES

When they made the road across the bog of Lamrach for
Mider, their King.

Pile on the soil; thrust on the soil:
 Red are the oxen around who toil:
 Heavy the troops that my words obey;
 Heavy they seem, and yet men are they.
 Strongly, as piles, are the tree-trunks placed:
 Red are the wattles above them laced:
 Tired are your hands, and your glances slant;
 One woman's winning this toil may grant!
Oxen ye are, but revenge shall see;
 Men who are white shall your servants be;
 Rushes from Teffa are cleared away;
 Grief is the price that the man shall pay:
 Stones have been cleared from the rough Meath ground;
 Where shall the gain or the harm be found?
 Thrust it in hand! Force it in hand!
 Nobles this night, as an ox-troop, stand;
 Hard is the task that is asked, and who
 From the bridging of Lamrach shall gain, or rue?
A. H. Leahy.

THE GREAT LAMENTATION OF DEIRDRE
FOR THE SONS OF USNA

"As to Deirdre, she was a year in the household of Conchobar, after the death of the Sons of Usna. And though it might be a little thing to raise her head or to bring a smile over her lip, never once did she do it through all that space of time.... She took not sufficiency of food or sleep, nor lifted her head from her knee. When people of amusement were sent to her, she would break out into lamentation:—

Splendid in your eyes may be the impetuous champions
 Who resort to Emain after a foray;
 More brilliant yet was the return
 Of Usna's heroes to their home!
Noisi bearing pleasant mead of hazel-nuts;
 I myself bathed him at the fire;
 Ardan bore an ox or boar of goodly size,
 Ainle, a load of faggots on his stately back.
Sweet though the excellent mead be found
 Drunk by the son of Ness of mighty conflicts;
 I have shared ere now, from a chase on the borders,
 Abundant provender more delicious!
When for the cooking-hearth noble Noisi
 Unbound the faggots on the forest hero-board,
 More pleasant than honey was each food,
 Better than all other the spoil brought in by Usna's sons.
How melodious soever at every time
 May be the sound of pipes and horns,
 Here to-day I make my confession,
 I have heard music sweeter far!
Here with Conchobar the king
 Sweet the sound of pipes and horns;
 More melodious to me the music,
 Famous and entrancing, of Usna's sons.
The sound of the wave was the voice of Noisi,
 Melodious music that wearied not ever;
 Mellow the rich-toned notes of Ardan,
 Or the deep chant of Ainle through the hunting-booth.
They have laid Noisi in the grave;
 Woeful to me was that convey,[100]
 The company whose act poured out for them
 The venomed draught from which they died.
Loved one of the well-trimmed beard! most fair is thy renown!
 Shapely one, though thy renown be fair!
 Alas! to-day I rise not up
 To greet the coming of Usna's sons.
Beloved thy firm and upright mind!
 Beloved, high champion, modest-hearted,
 After our wandering through the forests of Fál,[101]
 Gentle the caress of midnight.
Dear the grey eye, a woman's love;
 Though stern of aspect to the foe!
 As we passed through the trees to the simple tryst,
 Delightful thy deep notes across the sombre woods!
I sleep no more!
 No more I stain my finger-nails with red;
 No greeting comes to me who watch—
 The sons of Usna return no more.
I sleep not!
 Through half the wakeful night
 My mind is wandering out amongst the hosts;
 Yet more than that, I neither eat nor smile.
For me to-day no instant of deep joy,
 Nor noble house, nor rich adornments please;
 In Emain's gatherings of her mighty men
 I find no peace, nor pleasure, nor repose.
Splendid as in your eyes may be the impetuous champions
 Who resort to Emain after a foray;
 More brilliant yet was the return
 Of Usna's heroes to their home!"

When King Conchobar sought to soothe her, she would answer:

"What, O Conchobar, of thee?
 To me nought but tears and lamentation hast thou meted out;
 This is my life, so long as life shall last;
 Thy love for me is as a flame put out.[102]
He who to me was fairest under heaven,
 He who was most beloved,
 Thou hast torn him from me, great was the injury,
 I see him not until I die.
The secret of my grief, that it is gone,
 The form of Usna's son revealed to me;
 A pile I see dark-black above a corpse,
 Bright and well known to me beyond all else.

Break not, my heart, to-day!
 I sink ere long into an early grave;
 Like to the strong sea-wave
 The grief that binds me, if thou but knowest, O King!
What, O Conchobar, of thee?
 To me nought but tears and lamentation hast thou meted out;
 This is my life, so long as life shall last;
 Thy love, methinks, is as a flame put out."

FOOTNOTES:

[100] i.e. Fergus mac Roy and his sons, who induced the sons of Usna to return with them to Ireland, where they were slain by King Conchobar.

[101] Fál is a poetic name for Ireland; Inisfáil means "the Island of destiny" or of "knowledge."

[102] Lit. "is not lasting."

OSSIANIC POETRY

"Were but the brown leaf which the wood sheds from it gold—were but the white billow silver—Fionn would have given it all away."—The Colloquy with the Ancients.

FIRST WINTER-SONG

T
 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 ake my tidings!
 Stags contend;
 Snows descend—
 Summer's end!
A chill wind raging;
 The sun low keeping,
 Swift to set
 O'er seas high sweeping.
Dull red the fern;
 Shapes are shadows:
 Wild geese mourn
 O'er misty meadows.
Keen cold limes
 Each weaker wing.
 Icy times—
 Such I sing!
 Take my tidings!
 Alfred Perceval Graves.

SECOND WINTER-SONG