Chapter 1

A CELTIC PSALTERY

Being Mainly Renderings in English Verse from Irish & Welsh Poetry

by

ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES

The F. A. Stokes Company 443-449 Fourth Avenue New York

Published in England by The Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge 68 Haymarket, London

1917

DEDICATION

TO THE

RIGHT HON. DAVID LLOYD GEORGE

PRIME MINISTER OF GREAT BRITAIN AND IRELAND

This Psaltery of Celtic Songs To you by bounden right belongs; For ere War's thunder round us broke, To your content its chord I woke, Where Cymru's Prince in fealty pure Knelt for his Sire's Investiture.

Nor less these lays are yours but more, In memory of the Eisteddfod floor You flooded with a choral throng That poured God's praise a whole day long.

But most, O Celtic Seer, to you This Song Wreath of our Race is due, Since high o'er hatred and division, You have scaled the Peak and seen the Vision Of Freedom, breaking into birth From out an agonising Earth.

PREFACE

I have called this volume of verse a Celtic Psaltery because it mainly consists of close and free translations from Irish, Scotch Gaelic, and Welsh Poetry of a religious or serious character. The first half of the book is concerned with Irish poems. The first group of these starts with the dawning of Christianity out of Pagan darkness, and the spiritualising of the Early Irish by the wisdom to be found in the conversations between King Cormac MacArt--the Irish ancestor of our Royal Family--and his son and successor, King Carbery. Here also will be found those pregnant ninth-century utterances known as the "Irish Triads."

Next follow poems attributed or relating to some of the Irish saints--Patrick, Columba, Brigit, Moling; Lays of Monk and Hermit, Religious Invocations, Reflections and Charms and Lamentations for the Dead, including a remarkable early Irish poem entitled "The Mothers' Lament at the Slaughter of the Innocents" and a powerful peasant poem, "The Keening of Mary." The Irish section is ended by a set of songs suggested by Irish folk-tunes.

Of the early Irish Religious Poetry here translated it may be observed that the originals are not only remarkable for fine metrical form but for their cheerful spirituality, their open-air freshness and their occasional touches of kindly humour. "Irish religious poetry," it has been well said, "ranges from single quatrains to lengthy compositions dealing with all the varied aspects of religious life. Many of them give us a fascinating insight into the peculiar character of the early Irish Church, which differed in so many ways from the Christian world. We see the hermit in his lonely cell, the monk at his devotions or at his work of copying in the scriptorium or under the open sky; or we hear the ascetic who, alone or with twelve chosen companions, has left one of the great monasteries in order to live in greater solitude among the woods or mountains, or on a lonely island. The fact that so many of these poems are fathered upon well-known saints emphasises the friendly attitude of the native clergy towards vernacular poetry."[A]

I have endeavoured as far as possible to preserve in my translations both the character of these poems and their metrical form. But the latter attempt can be only a mere approximation owing to the strict rules of early Irish verse both as regards alliteration and vowel consonance. Still the use of the "inlaid rhyme" and other assonantal devices have, it is to be hoped, brought my renderings nearer in vocal effect to the originals than the use of more familiar English verse methods would have done.

The same metrical difficulties have met me when translating the Welsh sacred and spiritual poems which form the second division of this volume. But they have been more easy to grapple with--in part because I have had more assistance in dealing with the older Cymric poems from my lamented friend Mr. Sidney Richard John and other Welsh scholars, than I had in the case of the early Irish lyrics--in part because the later Welsh poems which I have rendered into English verse are generally in free, not "strict," metres, and therefore present no great difficulty to the translator.

The poems in the Welsh section are, roughly speaking, arranged in chronological order. The early Welsh poets Aneurin and Llywarch Hen are represented by two singular pieces, Llywarch Hen's curious "Tercets" and Aneurin's "Ode to the Months." In both of these, nature poetry and proverbial philosophy are oddly intermingled in a manner reminiscent of the Greek Gnomic Poets. Two examples are given of the serious verse of Dafydd ab Gwilym, a contemporary of Chaucer, who though he did not, like Wordsworth, read nature into human life with that spiritual insight for which he was so remarkable, yet as a poet of fancy, the vivid, delicate, sympathetic fancy of the Celt, still remains unmatched. Amongst Dafydd's contemporaries and successors, Iolo Goch's noble poem, "The Labourer," very appropriate to our breadless days, Lewis Glyn Cothi's touching elegy on his little son John, and Dr. Sion Cent's epigrammatic "The Noble's Grave" have been treated as far as possible in the metres of the originals, and I have gone as near as I could to the measures of Huw Morus' "The Bard's Death-Bed Confession," Elis Win's "Counsel in view of Death," and the Vicar Pritchard's "A Good Wife."

A word or two about these famous Welsh writers: Huw Morus (Hugh Morris) was the leading Welsh poet of the seventeenth century and a staunch Royalist, who during the Civil War proved himself the equal if not the superior of Samuel Butler as a writer of anti-Republican satire. He was also an amatory lyrist, but closed his career as the writer of some fine religious verses, notably this "Death-Bed Confession." Elis Win (Ellis Wynne) was not only an excellent writer of verse but one of the masters of Welsh prose. His "Vision of the Sleeping Bard" is, indeed, one of the most beautifully written works in the Welsh language. Though in many respects indebted to "Quevedo's Visions," the matter of Elis Win's book is distinctly original, and most poetically expressed, though he is none the less able to expose and scourge the immoralities of his age.

The Vicar Pritchard, otherwise the Rev. Rhys Pritchard, was the author of the famous "Welshmen's Candle," "Cannwyll y Cymry," written in the free metres, first published in 1646--completed in 1672. This consisted of a series of moral verses in the metres of the old folk-songs (Penillion Telyn) and remained dear to the hearts of the Welsh people for two centuries. Next may be mentioned Goronwy Owen, educated by the poet Lewis Morris, grandfather of the author of "Songs of Two Worlds" and "The Epic of Hades." As the Rev. Elvet Lewis writes of him: "Here at once we meet the true artist lost in his art. His humour is as playful as if the hand of a stern fate had never struck him on the face. His muse can laugh and make others laugh, or it can weep and make others weep." A specimen is given of one of his best known poems, "An Ode on the Day of Judgment," reproducing, as far as my powers have permitted, its final and internal rhymes and other metrical effects.

We now reach the most individual of the modern Welsh religious and philosophical poets, Islwyn (William Thomas), who took his Bardic title from the hill of Islwyn in his native Monmouthshire. He was greatly influenced by the poetry of Wordsworth, but was in no sense an imitator. Yet whilst, in the words of one of the Triads, he possessed the three things essential to poetic genius, "an eye to see nature, a heart to feel nature: and courage that dares follow nature"--he steadfastly refused to regard poetry as an art and, by declining to use the pruning-knife, allowed the finest fruits of his poetic talents to lie buried beneath immense accumulations of weedy and inferior growth. Yet what his powers were may not be ill judged of, even in translation, by the passage from his blank verse poem, "The Storm," entitled "Behind the Veil," to be found on p. 94.

Pantycelyn (the Rev. William Williams) was a co-worker with Howel Harris and Daniel Rowlands in the Methodist revival. Professor W.J. Gruffyd writes of him: "It is not enough to say he was a hymnologist--he was much more. He is the National Poet of Wales. He had certainly the loftiest imagination of all the poets of five centuries, and his influence on the Welsh people can be gauged by the fact that a good deal of his idiom or dialect has fixed itself indelibly in modern literary Welsh." The Hymn, "Marchog Jesu!" which represents him was translated by me at the request of the Committee responsible for the Institution Ceremony of the Prince of Wales at Carnarvon Castle.

Of the more modern Welsh poets represented in this volume let it be said that Ceiriog (John Hughes), so called from his birth in the Ceiriog Valley, is the Burns of Welsh Poetry. Against the spirit of gloom that the Welsh Revival cast over the first half of the nineteenth century he threw himself in sharp revolt. But while the joy of life wells up and overflows in his song he was also, like all Welshmen, serious-minded, as the specimens given in my translation from his works go to prove.

According to Professor Lewis Jones, no poem in the strict metre is more read than Eben Farrd's "Dinistur Jerusalem" ("The Destruction of Jerusalem"), translated into kindred verse in this volume, unless indeed its popularity is rivalled by Hiraethog's ode on "Heddwch," ("Peace"). Two extracts from the former poem are dealt with, and Hiraethog is represented by a beautiful fancy, "Love Divine," taken from his "Emanuel."

Finally, three living poets are represented in the Welsh section--Elvet Lewis by his stirring and touching "High Tide"; Eifion Wyn, upon whom the mantle of Ceiriog has fallen, by two exquisitely simple and pathetic poems, "Ora pro Nobis" and "A Flower-Sunday Lullaby"; and William John Gruffydd, the bright hope of "Y Beirdd Newydd" ("The New Poets"), by his poignant ballad of "The Old Bachelor of Ty'n y Mynydd."

There is no need for me to dwell upon the rest of the verse in this volume beyond stating that "The Prodigal's Return" is a free translation from a poem on that theme by an anonymous Scotch Gaelic Bard to be found in Sinton's "The Poetry of Badenoch"; that "Let there be joy!" is rendered from a Gaelic poem in Alexander Carmichael's "Carmina Gadelica," and that, finally, "Wild Wine of Nature" is a pretty close English version of a poem hardly to have been expected from that far from teetotal Scotch Gaelic Bard, Duncan Ban McIntyre.

ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES

RED BRANCH HOUSE LAURISTON ROAD, WIMBLEDON July 11, 1917

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote A: From "The Ancient Poetry of Ireland," by Professor Kuno Meyer, to whose beautiful prose translations from Irish verse in that volume, and in his "Hail, Brigit!" I am greatly indebted.]

CONTENTS

I. IRISH POEMS

THE ISLE OF THE HAPPY THE WISDOM OF KING CORMAC IRISH TRIADS

LAYS OF THE IRISH SAINTS

ST. PATRICK'S BLESSING ON MUNSTER THE BREASTPLATE OF ST. PATRICK ST. PATRICK'S EVENSONG ST. COLUMBA'S GREETING TO IRELAND ST. COLUMBA IN IONA HAIL, BRIGIT! THE DEVIL'S TRIBUTE TO MOLING THE HYMN OF ST. PHILIP

LAYS OF MONK AND HERMIT

THE SCRIBE THE HERMIT'S SONG CRINOG KING AND HERMIT ON ÆNGUS THE CULDEE THE SHAVING OF MURDOCH ON THE FLIGHTINESS OF THOUGHT THE MONK AND HIS WHITE CAT INVOCATIONS AND REFLECTIONS

A PRAYER TO THE VIRGIN MAELISU'S HYMN TO THE ARCHANGEL MICHAEL MAELISU'S HYMN TO THE HOLY SPIRIT EVE'S LAMENTATION ALEXANDER THE GREAT THE KINGS WHO CAME TO CHRIST QUATRAINS CHARMS AND INVOCATIONS

LAMENTATIONS

THE SONG OF CREDE, DAUGHTER OF GUARE THE DESERTED HOME THE MOTHERS' LAMENT AT THE SLAUGHTER OF THE INNOCENTS THE KEENING OF MARY CAOINE

SONGS TO MUSIC

BATTLE HYMN THE SONG OF THE WOODS THE ENCHANTED VALLEY REMEMBER THE POOR

II. WELSH POEMS

THE ODES TO THE MONTHS THE TERCETS HAIL, GLORIOUS LORD! MY BURIAL THE LAST CYWYDD THE LABOURER THE ELEGY ON SION GLYN THE NOBLE'S GRAVE THE BARD'S DEATH-BED CONFESSION QUICK, DEATH! COUNSEL IN VIEW OF DEATH FROM "THE LAST JUDGMENT" A GOOD WIFE "MARCHOG JESU!" THE DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM LOVE DIVINE BEHIND THE VEIL THE REIGN OF LOVE PLAS GOGERDDAN ALL THROUGH THE NIGHT DAVID OF THE WHITE ROCK THE HIGH TIDE "ORA PRO NOBIS" A FLOWER-SUNDAY LULLABY THE BALLAD OF THE OLD BACHELOR OF TY'N Y MYNYDD THE QUEEN'S DREAM THE WELSH FISHERMEN

III. OLD AND NEW TESTAMENT STUDIES

DAVID'S LAMENT OVER SAUL AND JONATHAN THE FIERY FURNACE RUTH AND NAOMI THE LILIES OF THE FIELD AND THE FOWLS OF THE AIR THE GOOD PHYSICIAN THE SOWER THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN ST. MARY MAGDALEN

IV. CHURCH FESTIVALS

A CHRISTMAS COMMUNION HYMN A CHRISTMAS CAROL OF THE EPIPHANY A FOURTEENTH-CENTURY CAROL EARTH'S EASTER EASTER DAY, 1915 THE ASCENSION WHITSUNTIDE HARVEST HYMN

V. GOOD AND FAITHFUL SERVANTS

FATHER O'FLYNN LADY GWENNY OLD DOCTOR MACK TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN OWEN SAINT CUTHBERT ALFRED THE GREAT SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON "MEN, NOT WALLS, MAKE A CITY" FIELD-MARSHAL EARL KITCHENER INSCRIPTION FOR A ROLL OF HONOUR IN A PUBLIC SCHOOL AN EPITAPH AN INTERCESSIONAL ANSWERED

VI. PERSONAL AND VARIOUS

LET THERE BE JOY! A HOLIDAY HYMN SUMMER MORNING'S WALK SNOW-STAINS REMEMBRANCE SANDS OF GOLD THE MOURNER DE PROFUNDIS IMMORTAL HOPE WE HAD A CHILD BY THE BEDSIDE OF A SICK CHILD HE HAS COME BACK SPRING'S SECRETS THE LORD'S LEISURE SPRING IS NOT DEAD AIM NOT TOO HIGH WILD WINE OF NATURE BRIDAL INVOCATION THE COMING OF SIR GALAHAD AND A VISION OF THE GRAIL ASK WHAT THOU WILT

I. IRISH POEMS

THE ISLE OF THE HAPPY

(From the Early Irish)

Once when Bran, son of Feval, was with his warriors in his royal fort, they suddenly saw a woman in strange raiment upon the floor of the house. No one knew whence she had come or how she had entered, for the ramparts were closed. Then she sang these quatrains of Erin, the Isle of the Happy, to Bran while all the host were listening:

A branch I bear from Evin's apple-trees Whose shape agrees with Evin's orchard spray; Yet never could her branches best belauded Such crystal-gauded bud and bloom display.

There is a distant Isle, deep sunk in shadows, Sea-horses round its meadows flash and flee; Full fair the course, white-swelling waves enfold it, Four pedestals uphold it o'er the sea.

White the bronze pillars that this Fairy Curragh,[A] The Centuries thorough, glimmering uphold. Through all the World the fairest land of any Is this whereon the many blooms unfold.

And in its midst an Ancient Tree forth flowers, Whence to the Hours beauteous birds outchime; In harmony of song, with fluttering feather, They hail together each new birth of Time.

And through the Isle glow all glad shades of colour, No hue of dolour mars its beauty lone. 'Tis Silver Cloud Land that we ever name it, And joy and music claim it for their own.

Not here are cruel guile or loud resentment, But calm contentment, fresh and fruitful cheer; Not here loud force or dissonance distressful, But music melting blissful on the ear.

No grief, no gloom, no death, no mortal sickness, Nor any weakness our sure strength can bound; These are the signs that grace the race of Evin. Beneath what other heaven are they found?

A Hero fair, from out the dawn's bright blooming, Rides forth, illuming level shore and flood; The white and seaward plain he sets in motion, He stirs the ocean into burning blood.

A host across the clear blue sea comes rowing, Their prowess showing, till they touch the shore; Thence seek the Shining Stone where Music's measure Prolongs the pleasure of the pulsing oar.

It sings a strain to all the host assembled; That strain untired has trembled through all time! It swells with such sweet choruses unnumbered, Decay and Death have slumbered since its chime.

Thus happiness with wealth is o'er us stealing, And laughter pealing forth from every hill. Yea! through the Land of Peace at every season Pure Joy and Reason are companions still.

Through all the lovely Isle's unchanging hours There showers and showers a stream of silver bright; A pure white cliff that from the breast of Evin Mounts up to Heaven thus assures her light.

Long ages hence a Wondrous Child and Holy, Yet in estate most lowly shall have birth; Seed of a Woman, yet whose Mate knows no man To rule the thousand thousands of the earth.

His sway is ceaseless; 'twas His love all-seeing That Earth's vast being wrought with perfect skill. All worlds are His; for all His kindness cares; But woe to all gainsayers of His Will.

The stainless heavens beneath His Hands unfolded, He moulded Man as free of mortal stain, And even now Earth's sin-struck sons and daughters His Living Waters can make whole again.

Not unto all of you is this my message Of marvellous presage at this hour revealed. Let Bran but listen from Earth's concourse crowded Unto the shrouded wisdom there concealed.

Upon a couch of languor lie not sunken, Beware lest drunkenness becloud thy speech! Put forth, O Bran, across the far, clear waters. And Evin's daughters haply thou may'st reach.

[Footnote A: Plain or tableland such as the Curragh of Kildare.]

THE WISDOM OF KING CORMAC

(From the Early Irish)

THE DEPTHS OF KING CORMAC'S HEART

CARBERY

"Cormac, Conn's grandson, and son of great Art Declare to me now from the depths of thy heart, With the wise and the foolish, With strangers and friends, The meek and the mulish, The old and the young, With good manners to make God amends-- How I must govern my tongue, And in all things comport myself purely, The good and the wicked among."

CORMAC

"The answer thereto is not difficult surely. Be not too wise nor too scatter-brained, Not too conceited nor too restrained, Be not too haughty nor yet too meek, Too tattle-tongued or too loth to speak, Neither too hard nor yet too weak. If too wise you appear, folk too much will claim of you, If too foolish, they still will be making fresh game of you, If too conceited, vexatious they'll dub you, If too unselfish, they only will snub you, If too much of a tattler, you ne'er will be heeded, If too silent, your company ne'er will be needed, If overhard, your pride will be broken asunder, If overweak, the folk will trample you under."

THE HOUSE OF HOSPITALITY

CARBERY

"Cormac, grandson of Conn, what dues hath a Chief and an ale-house?" Said Cormac: "Not hard to tell! Good behaviour around a good Chief; Lamps to light for the eye's relief; Exerting ourselves for the Company's sake, Seats assigned with no clownish mistake, Deft and liberal measuring carvers; Attentive and nimble-handed servers; Moderation in music and song; A telling of stories not too long; The Host, to a bright elation stirred, Giving each guest a welcoming word. Silence during the Bard's reciting-- Each chorus in sweet concent uniting."

HOW KING CORMAC ORDERED HIS YOUTH

CARBERY

"O Cormac, grandson of Conn, say sooth, How didst thou order thy days in youth?"

CORMAC

"Into the woods I went a-listening, I was a gazer when stars were glistening; Blind when secrets were plain to guess; A silent one in the wilderness; I was talkative with the many, Yet, in the mead-hall, milder than any; I was stern amid battle cries; I was gentle towards allies; I was a doctor unto the sick; On the feeble I laid no stick. Not close lest burdensome I should be; Though wise not given to arrogancy. I promised little, though lavish of gift; I was not reckless though I was swift; Young, I never derided the old; And never boasted though I was bold; Of an absent one no ill would I tell; I would not reproach, though I praised full well; I never would ask but ever would give, For a kingly life I craved to live!"

THE WORST WAY OF PLEADING

CARBERY

"O Cormac Mac Art, of Wisdom exceeding, What is the evilest way of pleading?" Said Cormac: "Not hard to tell! Against knowledge contending; Without proofs, pretending; In bad language escaping; A style stiff and scraping; Speech mean and muttering, Hair-splitting and stuttering; Uncertain proofs devising; Authorities despising; Scorning custom's reading; Confusing all your pleading; To madness a mob to be leading; With the shout of a strumpet Blowing one's own trumpet."

KING CORMAC'S WORST ENEMY

"O Cormac Mac Art, of your enemies' garrison, Who is the worst for your witty comparison?" Said Cormac: "Not hard to tell! A man with a satirist's nameless audacity; A man with a slave-woman's shameless pugnacity; One with a dirty dog's careless up-bound, The conscience thereto of a ravening hound. Like a stately noble he answers all speakers From a memory full as a Chronicle-maker's, With the suave behaviour of Abbot or Prior, Yet the blasphemous tongue of a horse-thief liar And he wise as false in every grey hair, Violent, garrulous, devil-may-care. When he cries, 'The case is settled and over!' Though you were a saint, I swear you would swear!"

IRISH TRIADS

(By an unknown Author of the ninth century)

Three signs whereby to mark a man of vice Are hatred, bitterness, and avarice.

Three graceless sisters in the bond of unity Are lightness, flightiness, and importunity.

Three clouds, the most obscuring Wisdom's glance, Forgetfulness, half-knowledge, ignorance.

Three savage sisters sharpening life's distress, Foul Blasphemy, Foul Strife, Foul-mouthedness.

Three services the worst for human hands, A vile Lord's, a vile Lady's, a vile Land's.

Three gladnesses that soon give way to griefs, A wooer's, a tale-bearer's, and a thief's.

Three signs of ill-bred folk in every nation-- A visit lengthened to a visitation, Staring, and overmuch interrogation.

Three arts that constitute a true physician: To cure your malady with expedition. To let no after-consequence remain, And make his diagnosis without pain.

Three keys that most unlock our secret thinking Are love and trustfulness and overdrinking.

Three nurses of hot blood to man's undoing-- Excess of pride, of drinking, and of wooing.

Three the receivers are of stolen goods: A cloak, the cloak of night, the cloak of woods.

Three unions, each of peace a proved miscarriage, Confederate feats, joint ploughland, bonds of marriage.

Three lawful hand-breadths for mankind about the body be, From shoes to hose, from ear to hair, from tunic unto knee.

Three youthful sisters for all eyes to see, Beauty, desire, and generosity.

Three excellences of our dress are these-- Elegance, durability, and ease.

Three idiots of a bad guest-house are these-- A hobbling beldam with a hoicking wheeze, A brainless tartar of a serving-girl, For serving-boy a swinish lubber-churl.

Three slender ones whereon the whole earth swings-- The thin milk stream that in the keeler sings; The thin green blade that from the cornfield springs; That thin grey thread the housewife's shuttle flings.

The three worst welcomes that will turn a guest-house For weary wayfarers into a Pest-house-- Within its roof a workman's hammer beat; A bath of scalding water for your feet; With no assuaging draught, salt food to eat.

Three finenesses that foulness keep from sight-- Fine manners in the most misfeatured wight; Fine shapes of art by servile fingers moulded; Fine wisdom from a cripple's brain unfolded.

Three fewnesses that better are than plenty: A fewness of fine words--but one in twenty; A fewness of milch cows, when grass is shrinking; Fewness of friends when beer is best for drinking.

Three worst of snares upon a Chieftain's way: Sloth, treachery, and evil counsel they!

Three ruins of a tribe to west or east: A lying Chief, false Brehon, lustful Priest.