Part 2

The rudest three of all the sons of earth: A youngster of an old man making mirth; A strong man at a sick man poking fun; A wise man gibing at a foolish one.

Three signs that show a fop: the comb-track on his hair; The track of his nice teeth upon his nibbled fare; His cane-track on the dust, oft as he takes the air.

Three sparks that light the fire of love are these-- Glamour of face, and grace, and speech of ease.

Three steadinesses of wise womanhood-- steady tongue through evil, as through good; A steady chastity, whoso else shall stray; Steady house service, all and every day.

Three sounds of increase: kine that low, When milk unto their calves they owe; The hammer on the anvil's brow, The pleasant swishing of the plough.

Three sisters false: I would! I might! I may! Three fearful brothers: Hearken! Hush! and Stay!

Three coffers of a depth unknown Are his who occupies the throne, The Church's, and the privileged Poet's own.

Three glories of a gathering free from strife-- Swift hound, proud steed, and beautiful young wife.

The world's three laughing-stocks (be warned and wiser!)-- An angry man, a jealoused, and a miser.

Three powers advantaging a Chieftain most Are Peace and Justice and an Armed Host.

Lays of the Irish Saints

ST. PATRICK'S BLESSING ON MUNSTER

(From the Early Irish)

Blessing from the Lord on High Over Munster fall and lie; To her sons and daughters all Choicest blessing still befall; Fruitful blessing on the soil That supports her faithful toil.

Blessing full of ruddy health, Blessing full of every wealth That her borders furnish forth, East and west and south and north; Blessing from the Lord on High Over Munster fall and lie!

Blessing on her peaks in air, Blessing on her flagstones bare, Blessing from her ridges flow To her grassy glens below! Blessing from the Lord on High Over Munster fall and lie!

As the sands upon her shore Underneath her ships, for store, Be her hearths, a twinkling host, Over mountain, plain and coast; Blessings from the Lord on High Over Munster fall and lie!

THE BREASTPLATE OF ST. PATRICK

Otherwise called "The Deer's Cry." For St. Patrick sang this hymn when the ambuscades were laid against him by King Leary that he might go to Tara to sow the Faith. Then it seemed to those lying in ambush that he and his monks were wild deer with a fawn, even Benen (Benignus) following him.

I invoke, upon my path To the King of Ireland's rath, The Almighty Power of the Trinity; Through belief in the Threeness, Through confession of the Oneness Of the Maker's Eternal Divinity.

I invoke, on my journey arising, The power of Christ's Birth and Baptizing, The powers of the hours of His dread Crucifixion, Of His Death and Abode in the Tomb, The power of the hour of His glorious Resurrection From out the Gehenna of gloom, The power of the hour when to Heaven He ascended, And the power of the hour when by Angels attended, He returns for the Judgment of Doom! On my perilous way To Tara to-day, I, Patrick, God's servant, Invoke from above The Cherubim's love! Yea! I summon the might of the Company fervent Of Angel obedient, ministrant Archangel To speed and to prosper my Irish Evangel. I go forth on my path in the trust Of the gathering to God of the Just; In the power of the Patriarchs' prayers; The foreknowledge of Prophets and Seers; The Apostles' pure preaching; The Confessors' sure teaching; The virginity blest of God's Dedicate Daughters, And the lives and the deaths of His Saints and His Martyrs!

I arise to-day in the strength of the heaven, The glory of the sun, The radiance of the moon, The splendour of fire and the swiftness of the levin, The wind's flying force, The depth of the sea, The earth's steadfast course, The rock's austerity.

I arise on my way, With God's Strength for my stay, God's Might to protect me, God's Wisdom to direct me, God's Eye to be my providence, God's Ear to take my evidence, God's Word my words to order, God's Hand to be my warder, God's Way to lie before me, God's Shield and Buckler o'er me, God's Host Unseen to save me, From each ambush of the Devil, From each vice that would enslave me. And from all who wish me evil, Whether far I fare or near. Alone or in a multitude.

All these Hierarchies and Powers I invoke to intervene, When the adversary lowers On my path, with purpose keen Of vengeance black and bloody On my soul and my body; I bind these Powers to come Against druid counsel dark, The black craft of Pagandom, And the false heresiarch, The spells of wicked women, And the wizard's arts inhuman, And every knowledge, old and fresh, Corruptive of man's soul and flesh.

May Christ, on my way To Tara to-day, Shield me from prison, Shield me from fire, Drowning or wounding By enemy's ire, So that mighty fruition May follow my mission. Christ behind and before me, Christ beneath me and o'er me, Christ within and without me, Christ around and about me, Christ on my left and Christ on my right, Christ with me at morn and Christ with me at night; Christ in each heart that shall ever take thought of me, Christ in each mouth that shall ever speak aught of me; Christ in each eye that shall ever on me fasten, Christ in each ear that shall ever to me listen.

I invoke, upon my path To the King of Ireland's rath, The Almighty Power of the Trinity; Through belief in the Threeness, Through confession of the Oneness Of the Maker's Eternal Divinity.

ST. PATRICK'S EVENSONG

Christ, Thou Son of God most High, May thy Holy Angels keep Watch around us as we lie In our shining beds asleep.

Time's hid veil with truth to pierce Let them teach our dreaming eyes, Arch-King of the Universe, High-Priest of the Mysteries.

May no demon of the air, May no malice of our foes, Evil dream or haunting care Mar our willing, prompt repose!

May our vigils hallowed be By the tasks we undertake! May our sleep be fresh and free, Without let and without break.

ST. COLUMBA'S GREETING TO IRELAND

(An old Irish poem recounting the Saint's voyage from Erin to Alba (Scotland), from which he but once returned)

Delightful to stand on the brow of Ben Edar, Before being a speeder on the white-haired sea! The dashing of the wave in wild disorder On its desolate border delightful to me!

Delightful to stand on the brow of Ben Edar, After being a speeder o'er the white-bosomed sea, After rowing and rowing in my little curragh! To the loud shore thorough, O, Och, Ochonee!

Great is the speed of my little wherry, As afar from Derry its path it ploughs; Heavy my heart out of Erin steering And nearing Alba of the beetling brows.

My foot is fast in my chiming curragh, Tears of sorrow my sad heart fill. Who lean not on God are but feeble-minded, Without His Love we go blinded still.

There is a grey eye that tears are thronging, Fixed with longing on Erin's shore, It shall never see o'er the waste of waters The sons and daughters of Erin more.

Its glance goes forth o'er the brine wave-broken, Far off from the firm-set, oaken seat; Many the tears from that grey eye streaming, The faint, far gleaming of Erin to meet.

For indeed my soul is set upon Erin, And all joys therein from Linnhe to Lene, On each pleasant prospect of proud Ultonia, Mild Momonia and Meath the green.

In Alba eastward the lean Scot increases, Frequent the diseases and murrain in her parts, Many in her mountains the scanty-skirted fellows, Many are the hard and the jealous hearts.

Many in the West are our Kings and Princes noble, Orchards bend double beneath their fruitage vast; Sloes upon the thorn-bush shine in blue abundance, Oaks in redundance drop the royal mast.

Melodious are her clerics, melodious Erin's birds are, Gentle her youths' words are, her seniors discreet; Famed far her chieftains--goodlier are no men-- Very fair her women for espousal sweet.

'Tis within the West sweet Brendan is residing, There Colum MacCriffan is indeed abiding now; And 'tis unto the West ruddy Baithir is repairing And Adamnan shall be faring to perform his vow.

Salute them courteously, salute them all and single, After them Comgall, Eternity's true heir, Then to the stately Monarch of fair Navan Up from the haven my greeting greatly bear.

My blessing, fair youth, and my full benediction Without one restriction be bearing to-day-- One half above Erin, one half seven times over, And one half above Alba to hover for aye.

Carry to Erin that full load of blessing, For sorrow distressing my heart's pulses fail, If Death overtake me, the whole truth be spoken! My heart it was broken by great love for the Gael.

"Gael, Gael," at that dear word's repeating, Again with glad beating my heart takes my breast. Beloved is Cummin of the tresses most beauteous, And Cainnech the duteous and Comgall the Blest.

Were all of Alba mine now to enter, Mine from the centre and through to the sea; I would rather possess in deep-leaved Derry The home that was very very dear to me.

To Derry my love is ever awarded, For her lawns smooth-swarded, her pure clear wells, And the hosts of angels that hover and hover Over and over her oak-set dells.

Indeed and indeed for these joys I love her, Pure air is above her, smooth turf below; While evermore over each oak-bough leafy A beautiful bevy of angels go.

My Derry, my little oak grove of Erin! My dwelling was therein, my small dear cell. Strike him, O Living God out of Heaven, With Thy red Levin who works them ill.

Beloved shall Derry and Durrow endure, Beloved Raphoe of the pure clear well, Beloved Drumhome with its sweet acorn showers, Beloved the towers of Swords and Kells!

Beloved too at my heart as any Art thou Drumcliffe on Culcinné's strand, And over Loch Foyle--'tis delight to be gazing-- So shapely are her shores on either hand.

Delightful indeed, is the purple sea's glamour, Where sea-gulls clamour in white-winged flight, As you view it afar from Derry belovèd, O the peace of it, the peace and delight!

ST. COLUMBA IN IONA

(From an Irish Manuscript in the Burgundian Library, Brussels)

Delightful would it be to me From a rock pinnacle to trace Continually The Ocean's face: That I might watch the heaving waves Of noble force To God the Father chant their staves Of the earth's course. That I might mark its level strand, To me no lone distress, That I might hark the sea-bird's wondrous band-- Sweet source of happiness. That I might hear the clamorous billows thunder On the rude beach. That by my blessed church side I might ponder Their mighty speech. Or watch surf-flying gulls the dark shoal follow With joyous scream, Or mighty ocean monsters spout and wallow, Wonder supreme! That I might well observe of ebb and flood All cycles therein; And that my mystic name might be for good But "Cul-ri. Erin." That gazing toward her on my heart might fall A full contrition, That I might then bewail my evils all, Though hard the addition; That I might bless the Lord who all things orders For their great good. The countless hierarchies through Heaven's bright borders-- Land, strand, and flood, That I might search all books and from their chart Find my soul's calm; Now kneel before the Heaven of my heart, Now chant a psalm; Now meditate upon the King of Heaven, Chief of the Holy Three; Now ply my work by no compulsion driven. What greater joy could be? Now plucking dulse upon the rocky shore, Now fishing eager on, Now furnishing food unto the famished poor; In hermitage anon: The guidance of the King of Kings Has been vouchsafed unto me; If I keep watch beneath His wings, No evil shall undo me.

HAIL, BRIGIT!

An old Irish poem on the Hill of Alenn recording the disappearance of the Pagan World of Ireland and the triumph of Christianity by the establishment at Kildare of the convent of Brigit, Saint and Princess.

Safe on thy throne, Triumphing Bride, Down Liffey's side, Far to the coast, Rule with the host Under thy care Over the Children of Mighty Cathair.

God's hid intents At every time, For pure Erin's clime All telling surpass. Liffey's clear glass Mirrors thy reign, But many proud masters have passed from his plain.

When on his banks I cast my eyes thorough The fair, grassy Curragh, Awe enters my mind At each wreck that I find Around me far strown Of lofty kings' palaces gaunt, lichen-grown!

Laery was monarch As far as the Main; Vast Ailill's reign! The Curragh's green wonder Still grows the blue under, The old rulers thereon One after other to cold death have gone.

Where is Alenn far-famed, How dear in delights! Beneath her what Knights What Princes repose How feared by her foes When Crimthan was Chief-- Crimthan of Conquests--now passes belief!

Proudly the triumph-shout Rang from his victor lords, Round their massed shock of swords; While their foes' serried, blue Spears they struck through and through; Blasts of delight Blared from their horns over hundreds in flight.

Blithe, on their anvils Even-hued, blent The hammers' concent; From the Brugh the bard's song Brake sweet and strong; Proud beauty graced The field where knights jousted and charioteers raced.

There in each household Ran the rich mead; Steed neighed to steed; Chains jingled again Unto Kings among men Under the blades Of their five-edged, long, bitter, blood-letting spear-heads.

There, at each hour, Harp music o'erflowed; The wine-galleon rode The violet sea, Whence silver showered free, And gold torques without fail, From the land of the Gaul to the Land of the Gael.

To Britain's far coasts The renown of those kings On a meteor's wings O'er the waters had flown. Yea! Alenn's high throne, With its masterful lore, Made sport of the pomp of each palace before.

But where, oh, where is mighty Cathair? Before him or since No shapelier Prince Ruled many-hued Erin. Though round the rath, wherein They laid him, you cry, The Champion of Champions can never reply.

Where is Feradach's robe, Where his diadem famed, Round which, as it flamed, Plumed ranks deployed? His blue helm is destroyed, His shining cloak dust. Overthrower of kings, in whom now is thy trust?

Alenn's worship of auguries Now is as naught! None thereof takes thought. All in vain is each spell The dark future to tell! All is vain, when 'tis probed, And Alenn lies dead of her black arts disrobed.

Hail, Brigit! whose lands To-day I behold, Whither monarchs of old Came each in his turn. Thy fame shall outburn Their mightiest glory; Thou art over them all, till this Earth ends its story.

Yea! Thy rule with the King Everlasting shall stand, Apart from the land Of thy burial-place. Child of Bresal's proud race, O triumphing Bride,[A] Sit safely enthroned upon Liffey's green side.

[Footnote A: Brigit; hence St. Bride's Bay.]

THE DEVIL'S TRIBUTE TO MOLING

(From the Early Irish)

Once, when St. Moling was praying in his church, the Devil visited him in purple raiment and distinguished form. On being challenged by the saint, he declared himself to be the Christ, but on Moling's raising the Gospel to disprove his claim, the Evil One confessed that he was Satan. "Wherefore hast thou come?" asked Moling. "For a blessing," the Devil replied. "Thou shalt not have it," said Moling, "for thou deservest it not." "Well, then," said the Devil, "bestow the full of a curse on me." "What good were that to thee?" asked Moling. "The venom and the hurt of the curse will be on the lips from which it will come." After further parley, the Devil paid this tribute to Moling:

He is pure gold, the sky around the sun, A silver chalice brimmed with blessed wine, An Angel shape, a book of lore divine, Whoso obeys in all the Eternal One.

He is a foolish bird that fowlers lime, A leaking ship in utmost jeopardy, An empty vessel and a withered tree, Who disobeys the Sovereign Sublime.

A fragrant branch with blossoms overrun, A bounteous bowl with honey overflowing, A precious stone, of virtue past all knowing Is he who doth the will of God's dear Son.

A nut that only emptiness doth fill, A sink of foulness, a crookt branch is he Upon a blossomless crab-apple tree, Who doeth not his Heavenly Master's will.

Whoso obeys the Son of God and Mary-- He is a sunflash lighting up the moor, He is a dais on the Heavenly Floor, A pure and very precious reliquary.

A sun heaven-cheering he, in whose warm beam The King of Kings takes ever fresh delight, He is a temple, noble, blessèd, bright, A saintly shrine with gems and gold a-gleam.

The altar he, whence bread and wine are told, While countless melodies around are hymned, A chalice cleansed from God's own grapes upbrimmed, Upon Christ's garment's hem the joyful gold.

THE HYMN OF ST. PHILIP

(From the Early Irish)

Philip the Apostle holy At an Aonach[A] once was telling Of the immortal birds and shapely Afar in Inis Eidheand dwelling.

East of Africa abiding They perform a labour pleasant; Unto earth there comes no colour That on their pinions is not present.

Since the fourth Creation morning When their God from dust outdrew them, Not one plume has from them perished, And not one bird been added to them.

Seven fair streams with all their channels Pierce the plains wherethrough they flutter, Round whose banks the birds go feeding, Then soar thanksgiving songs to utter.

Midnight is their hour apportioned, When, on magic coursers mounted, Through the starry skies they circle, To chants of angel choirs uncounted.

Of the foremost birds the burthen Most melodiously unfolded Tells of all the works of wonder God wrought before the world He moulded.

Then a sweet crowd heavenward lifted, When the nocturn bells are pealing, Chants His purposes predestined Until the Day of Doom's revealing.

Next a flock whose thoughts are blessed, Under twilight's curls dim sweeping, Hymn God's wondrous words of Judgment When His Court of Doom is keeping.

One and forty on a hundred And a thousand, without lying, Was their number, joined to virtue, Put upon each bird-flock flying.

Who these faultless birds should hearken, Thus their strains of rapture linking, For the very transport of it, Unto death would straight be sinking.

Pray for us, O mighty Mary! When earth's bonds no more are binding, That these birds our souls may solace, In the Land of Philip's finding.

[Footnote A: A fair, or open-air assembly.]

Lays of Monk and Hermit

THE SCRIBE

(From the Early Irish)

For weariness my hand writes ill, My small sharp quill runs rough and slow; Its slender beak with failing craft Gives forth its draught of dark blue flow.

And yet God's blessed wisdom gleams And streams beneath my fair brown palm, The while quick jets of holly ink The letters link of prayer or psalm.

So still my dripping pen is fain To cross the plain of parchment white, Unceasing, at some rich man's call, Till wearied all am I to-night.

THE HERMIT'S SONG

(See _Eriu_, vol. I, p. 39, where the Irish text will be found. It dates from the ninth century)

I long, O Son of the living God, Ancient, eternal King, For a hidden hut on the wilds untrod, Where Thy praises I might sing; A little, lithe lark of plumage grey To be singing still beside it, Pure waters to wash my sin away, When Thy Spirit has sanctified it. Hard by it a beautiful, whispering wood Should stretch, upon either hand, To nurse the many-voiced fluttering brood In its shelter green and bland. Southward, for warmth, should my hermitage face, With a runnel across its floor, In a choice land gifted with every grace, And good for all manner of store. A few true comrades I next would seek To mingle with me in prayer, Men of wisdom, submissive, meek; Their number I now declare, Four times three and three times four, For every want expedient, Sixes two within God's Church door, To north and south obedient; Twelve to mingle their voices with mine At prayer, whate'er the weather, To Him Who bids His dear sun shine On the good and ill together. Pleasant the Church with fair Mass cloth, No dwelling for Christ's declining To its crystal candles, of bees-wax both, On the pure, white Scriptures shining. Beside it a hostel for all to frequent, Warm with a welcome for each, Where mouths, free of boasting and ribaldry, vent But modest and innocent speech. These aids to support us my husbandry seeks, I name them now without hiding-- Salmon and trout and hens and leeks, And the honey-bees' sweet providing. Raiment and food enow will be mine From the King of all gifts and all graces; And I to be kneeling, in rain or shine, Praying to God in all places.

CRINOG

A.D. 900-1000

This poem relates "to one who lived like a sister or spiritual wife with a priest, monk, or hermit, a practice which, while early suppressed and abandoned everywhere else, seems to have survived in the Irish Church till the tenth century."

Crinog of melodious song, No longer young, but bashful-eyed, As when we roved Niall's Northern Land, Hand in hand, or side by side.

Peerless maid, whose looks ran o'er With the lovely lore of Heaven, By whom I slept in dreamless joy, A gentle boy of summers seven.

We dwelt in Banva's broad domain, Without one stain of soul or sense; While still mine eye flashed forth on thee Affection free of all offence.

To meet thy counsel quick and just, Our faithful trust responsive springs; Better thy wisdom's searching force Than any smooth discourse with kings.

In sinless sisterhood with men, Four times since then, hast thou been bound, Yet not one rumour of ill-fame Against thy name has travelled round.

At last, their weary wanderings o'er, To me once more thy footsteps tend; The gloom of age makes dark thy face, Thy life of grace draws near its end.

O, faultless one and very dear, Unstinted welcome here is thine. Hell's haunting dread I ne'er shall feel, So thou be kneeling at my side.

Thy blessed fame shall ever bide, For far and wide thy feet have trod. Could we their saintly track pursue, We yet should view the Living God.

You leave a pattern and bequest To all who rest upon the earth-- A life-long lesson to declare Of earnest prayer the precious worth.

God grant us peace and joyful love! And may the countenance of Heaven's King Beam on us when we leave behind Our bodies blind and withering.

KING AND HERMIT

Marvan, brother of King Guare of Connaught, in the seventh century, had renounced the life of a warrior prince for that of a hermit. The King endeavoured to persuade his brother to return to his Court, when the following colloquy took place between them:

GUARE

Now Marvan, hermit of the grot, Why sleep'st thou not on quilted feathers? Why on a pitch-pine floor instead At night make head against all weathers?

MARVAN