Part 3

I have a shieling in the wood, None save my God has knowledge of it, An ash-tree and a hazelnut Its two sides shut, great oak-boughs roof it.

Two heath-clad posts beneath a buckle Of honeysuckle its frame are propping, The woods around its narrow bound Swine-fattening mast are richly dropping.

From out my shieling not too small, Familiar all, fair paths invite me; Now, blackbird, from my gable end, Sweet sable friend, thy notes delight me.

With joys the stags of Oakridge leap Into their clear and deep-banked river, Far off red Roiny glows with joy, Muckraw, Moinmoy in sunshine quiver.

With mighty mane a green-barked yew Upholds the blue; his fortress green An oak uprears against the storms, Tremendous forms, stupendous scene.

Mine apple-tree is full of fruit From crown to root--a hostel's store-- My bonny nutful hazel-bush Leans branching lush against my door.

A choice, pure spring of cooling draught Is mine. What prince has quaffed a rarer? Around it cresses keen, O King, Invite the famishing wayfarer.

Tame swine and wild and goat and deer Assemble here upon its brink, Yea! even the badger's brood draw near And without fear lie down to drink.

A peaceful troop of creatures strange, They hither range from wood and height, To meet them slender foxes steal At vesper peal, O my delight!

These visitants as to a Court Frequent resort to seek me out, Pure water, Brother Guare, are they The salmon grey, the speckled trout;

Red rowans, dusky sloes and mast-- O unsurpassed and God-sent dish-- Blackberries, whortleberries blue, Red strawberries to my taste and wish;

Sweet apples, honey of wild bees And after them of eggs a clutch, Haws, berries of the juniper; Who, King, could cast a slur on such?

A cup with mead of hazelnut Outside my hut in summer shine, Or ale with herbs from wood and spring Are worth, O King, thy costliest wine.

Bright bluebells o'er my board I throw-- A lovely show my feast to spangle-- The rushes' radiance, oaklets grey, Brier-tresses gay, sweet, goodly tangle.

When brilliant summer casts once more Her cloak of colour o'er the fields, Sweet-tasting marjoram, pignut, leek, To all who seek, her verdure yields.

Her bright red-breasted little men Their lovely music then outpour, The thrush exults, the cuckoos all Around her call and call once more.

The bees, earth's small musicians, hum, No longer dumb, in gentle chorus. Like echoes faint of that long plaint The fleeing wild-fowl murmur o'er us.

The wren, an active songster now, From off the hazel-bough pipes shrill, Woodpeckers flock in multitudes With beauteous hoods and beating bill.

With fair white birds, the crane and gull The fields are full, while cuckoos cry-- No mournful music! Heath-poults dun Through russet heather sunward fly.

The heifers now with loud delight, Summer bright, salute thy reign! Smooth delight for toilsome loss 'Tis now to cross the fertile plain.

The warblings of the wind that sweep From branchy wood to beaming sky, The river-falls, the swan's far note-- Delicious music floating by.

Earth's bravest band because unhired, All day, untired make cheer for me. In Christ's own eyes of endless youth Can this same truth be said of thee?

What though in Kingly pleasures now Beyond all riches thou rejoice, Content am I my Saviour good Should on this wood have set my choice.

Without one hour of war or strife Through all my life at peace I fare; Where better can I keep my tryst With our Lord Christ, O brother Guare?

GUARE

My glorious Kingship, yea! and all My Sire's estates that fall to me, My Marvan, I would gladly give, So I might live my life with thee.

ON ÆNGUS THE CULDEE

Author of the _Felire Ængusa_ or Calendar of Church Festivals. He was a Saint, his appellation Culdee [Céile dé] meaning "Servant of God." He lived at the end of the eighth and beginning of the ninth century.

Delightful here at Disert Bethel, By cold, pure Nore at peace to rest, Where noisy raids have never sullied The beechen forest's virgin vest.

For here the Angel Host would visit Of yore with Ængus, Oivlen's son, As in his cross-ringed cell he lauded The One in Three, the Three in One.

To death he passed upon a Friday, The day they slew our Blessed Lord. Here stands his tomb; unto the Assembly Of Holy Heaven his soul has soared.

'Twas in Cloneagh he had his rearing; 'Tis in Cloneagh he now lies dead, 'Twas in Cloneagh of many crosses That first his psalms he read.

THE SHAVING OF MURDOCH

(From the Early Irish)

(By Muiredach O'Daly, late twelfth century, when he and Cathal More of the Red Hand, King of Connaught, entered the monastic life together.)

Murdoch, whet thy razor's edge, Our crowns to pledge to Heaven's Ardrigh! Vow we now our hair fine-tressed To the Blessed Trinity!

Now my head I shear to Mary; 'Tis a true heart's very due. Shapely, soft-eyed Chieftain now Shear thy brow to Mary, too!

Seldom on thy head, fair Chief, Hath a barbing-knife been plied; Oft the fairest of Princesses Combed her tresses at thy side.

Whensoever we did bathe, We found no scathe, yourself and I, With Brian of the well-curled locks, From hidden rocks and currents wry.

And most I mind what once befell Beside the well of fair Boru-- I swam a race with Ua Chais The icy flood of Fergus through.

When hand to hand the bank we reached, Swift foot to foot we stretched again, Till Duncan Cairbre, Chief of Chiefs, Gave us three knives--not now in vain.

No other blades such temper have; Then, Murdoch, shave with easy art! Whet, Cathal of the Wine Red Hand, Thy Victor brand, in peaceful part!

Then our shorn heads from weather wild Shield, Daughter mild of Joachim! Preserve us from the sun's fierce power, Mary, soft Flower of Jesse's Stem!

ON THE FLIGHTINESS OF THOUGHT

(A tenth-century poem. See _Eriu_, vol. iii, p. 13)

Shame upon my thoughts, O shame! How they fly in order broken, Therefore much I fear for blame When the Trump of Doom has spoken.

At my psalms, they oft are set On a path the Fiend must pave them; Evermore, with fash and fret, In God's sight they misbehave them.

Through contending crowds they fleet, Companies of wanton women, Silent wood or strident street, Swifter than the breezes skimming.

Now through paths of loveliness, Now through ranks of shameful riot, Onward evermore they press, Fledged with folly and disquiet.

O'er the Ocean's sounding deep Now they flash like fiery levin; Now at one vast bound they leap Up from earth into the Heaven.

Thus afar and near they roam On their race of idle folly; Till at last to reason's home They return right melancholy.

Would you bind them wrist to wrist-- Foot to foot the truants shackle, From your toils away they twist Into air with giddy cackle.

Crack of whip or edge of steel Cannot hold them in your keeping; With the wriggle of an eel From your grasp they still go leaping.

Never yet was fetter found, Never lock contrived, to hold them; Never dungeon underground, Moor or mountain keep controlled them.

Thou whose glance alone makes pure, Searcher of all hearts and Saviour, With Thy Sevenfold Spirit cure My stray thoughts' unblessed behaviour.

God of earth, air, fire and flood, Rule me, rule me in such measure, That to my eternal good I may live to love Thy pleasure.

Christ's own flock thus may I reach, At the flash of Death's sharp sickle, Just in deed, of steadfast speech, Not, as now, infirm and fickle.

THE MONK AND HIS WHITE CAT

(After an eighth- or early ninth-century Irish poem. Text and translation in _Thesaurus Palæohibernicus_.)

Pangar, my white cat, and I Silent ply our special crafts; Hunting mice his one pursuit, Mine to shoot keen spirit shafts.

Rest, I love, all fame beyond, In the bond of some rare book; Yet white Pangar from his play Casts, my way, no jealous look.

Thus alone within one cell Safe we dwell--not dull the tale-- Since his ever favourite sport Each to court will never fail.

Now a mouse, to swell his spoils, In his toils he spears with skill; Now a meaning deeply thought I have caught with startled thrill.

Now his green full-shining gaze Darts its rays against the wall; Now my feebler glances mark Through the dark bright knowledge fall.

Leaping up with joyful purr, In mouse fur his sharp claw sticks, Problems difficult and dear, With my spear I, too, transfix.

Crossing not each other's will, Diverse still, yet still allied, Following each his own lone ends, Constant friends we here abide.

Pangar, master of his art, Plays his part in pranksome youth; While in age sedate I clear Shadows from the sphere of Truth.

Invocations and Reflections

A PRAYER TO THE VIRGIN

(Edited by Strachan in _Eriu_, vol. i, p. 122. Tenth or perhaps ninth century)

Gentle Mary, Noble Maiden, Hearken to our suppliant pleas! Shrine God's only Son was laid in! Casket of the Mysteries!

Holy Maid, pure Queen of Heaven, Intercession for us make, That each hardened heart's transgression May be pardoned for Thy sake.

Bent in loving pity o'er us, Through the Holy Spirit's power, Pray the King of Angels for us In Thy Visitation hour.

Branch of Jesse's tree whose blossoms Scent the heavenly hazel wood, Pray for me for full purgation Of my bosom's turpitude.

Mary, crown of splendour glowing, Dear destroyer of Eve's ill, Noble torch of Love far-showing, Fruitful stock of God's good will;

Heavenly Virgin, Maid transcendent, Yea! He willed that Thou shouldst be His fair Ark of Life Resplendent, His pure Queen of Chastity.

Mother of all good, to free me, Interceding at my side, Pray Thy First-Born to redeem me, When the Judgment books are wide;

Star of knowledge, rare and noble, Tree of many-blossoming sprays, Lamp to light our night of trouble, Sun to cheer our weary days;

Ladder to the Heavenly Highway, Whither every Saint ascends, Be a safeguard still, till my way In Thy glorious Kingdom ends!

Covert fair of sweet protection, Chosen for a Monarch's rest, Hostel for nine months' refection Of a Noble Infant Guest;

Glorious Heavenly Porch, whereunder, So the day-star sinks his head, God's Own Son--O saving wonder! Jesus was incarnated;

For the fair Babe's sake conceivèd In Thy womb and brought to birth, For the Blest Child's sake, receivèd Now as King of Heaven and Earth;

For His Rood's sake! starker, steeper Hath no other Cross been set, For His Tomb's sake! darker, deeper There hath been no burial yet;

By His Blessed Resurrection, When He triumphed o'er the tomb, By The Church of His affection 'During till the Day of Doom,

Safeguard our unblest behaviour, Till behind Death's blinding veil, Face to face, we see our Saviour. This our prayer is: Hail! All Hail!

MAELISU'S HYMN TO THE ARCHANGEL MICHAEL

(By Maelisu ua Brochain, a writer of religious poetry both in Irish and Latin who died in 1051. Mael-Isu means "the tonsured of Jesus.")

Angel and Saint, O Michael of the oracles, O Michael of great miracles, Bear to the Lord my plaint!

Hear my request! Ask of the great, forgiving God, To lift this vast and grievous load Of sin from off my breast.

Why, Michael, tarry My fervent prayer with upward wing Unto the King, the great High King Of Heaven and Earth, to carry?

Unto my soul Bring help, bring comfort, yea bring power To win release, in death's black hour, From sin, distress, and dole.

Till, as devoutly My fading eyes seek Heaven's dim height, To meet me with thy myriads bright, Do thou adventure stoutly.

Captain of hosts, Against earth's wicked, crooked clan To aid me lead thy battle van And quell their cruel boasts.

Archangel glorious, Disdain not now thy suppliant urgent, But over every sin insurgent Set me at last victorious.

Thou art my choosing! That with my body, soul, and spirit Eternal life I may inherit, Thine aid be not refusing.

In my sore need O thou of Anti-Christ the slayer, Triumphant victor, to my prayer Give heed, O now give heed!

MAELISU'S HYMN TO THE HOLY SPIRIT

O Holy Spirit, hasten to us! Move round about us, in us, through us! All our deadened souls' desires Inflame anew with heavenly fires!

Yea! let each heart become a hostel Of Thy bright Presence Pentecostal, Whose power from pestilence and slaughter Shall shield us still by land and water.

From bosom sins, seducing devils, From Hell with all its hundred evils, For Jesus' only sake and merit, Preserve us, Thou Almighty Spirit!

EVE'S LAMENTATION

(From the Early Irish)

I am Eve, great Adam's wife, 'Twas my guilt took Jesus' life. Since of Heaven I robbed my race, On His Cross was my true place.

In His Paradise, God placed me, Then a wicked choice disgraced me. At the counsel of the Devil, My pure hand I stained with evil;

For I put it forth and plucked, Then the deadly apple sucked. Long as woman looks on day, Shall she walk in folly's way.

Winter's withering icy woe, Whelming wave and smothering snow, Hell to fright and death to grieve-- Had been never, but for Eve!

ALEXANDER THE GREAT

(From the Early Irish)

Four Sages stood to chant a stave Above the proud Earth Conqueror's grave; And all their words were words of candour Above the urn of Alexander.

The first began: "But yesterday, When all in state the Great King lay, Myriads around him made their moan, To-day he lieth all alone!"

"But yesterday," the second sang, "O'er Earth his charger's hoof outrang; To-day its outraged soil instead Is riding heavy o'er his head!"

"But yesterday," the third went on, "All Earth was swayed by Philip's son: To-day, to shroud his calcined bones, Seven feet thereof is all he owns!"

"But yesterday, so liberal he, Silver and gold he scattered free; To-day," the last outsighed his thought, "His wealth abounds but he is naught!"

Thus sentence gave these Sages four, Above the buried Emperor; It was no foolish women's prate That held them thus in high debate.

THE KINGS WHO CAME TO CHRIST

(From the Early Irish)

Three Kings came to the Babe's abode, With faces that like bright moons glowed, From out the learned Eastern world, Where o'er wide plains slow streams are curled.

The three sought out the lovely Child, On whom, white-blossomed Bethel smiled, Three, o'er all knowledge granted sway, Three Seers of the Vision they.

The Promise of the Great All-wise Was present to their prescient eyes, A Vision beckoning from afar, The Christ Child cradled on a star;

A lofty star of lucent ray, It swam before them through the day, And when earth's hues were lost in night, It still led on with loving light.

And still the lucky Royal Three Went following it full readily; And still across the firmament An arch of blessed might it went.

So rushing radiant, round and soft, Past every star that paced aloft, Right joyously it stayed for them At last o'er blessed Bethlehem.

O, then each Monarch of the Three With worship fell upon his knee, And gave, while God he loud extolled, His frankincense and myrrh and gold.

They recognised the Babe's bright face And Mary in her Virgin grace. 'Twas thus the Star's Epiphany Showed Christ their King to the Kings three.

QUATRAINS

HOSPITALITY

Whether my house is dark or bright, I close it not on any wight, Lest Thou, hereafter, King of Stars, Against me close Thy Heavenly bars.

If from a guest who shares thy board Thy dearest dainty thou shalt hoard, 'Tis not that guest, O never doubt it, But Mary's Son shall do without it.

THE BLACKBIRD

Ah, Blackbird, that at last art blest Because thy nest is on the bough, No Hermit of the clinking bell, How soft and well thy notes fall now.

MOLING SANG THIS

With the old when I consort Jest and sport they straight lay by; When with frolic youth I am flung, Maddest of the young am I.

THE CHURCH BELL IN THE NIGHT

Sweet little bell, sweet little bell, Struck long and well upon the wind, I'd rather tryst with thee to-night Than any maiden light of mind.

THE CRUCIFIXION

At the first bird's early crying, They began Thy Crucifying, O Thou of face as woeful wan, As the far-flown winter swan.

Sore the suffering and the shame Put upon Thy Sacred Frame; Ah! but sorer the heartache For Thy stricken Mother's sake.

THE PILGRIM AT ROME

Unto Rome wouldst thou attain, Great the toil is, small the gain, If the King thou seekest therein Travel not, with thee, from Erin.

ON A DEAD SCHOLAR

Dead is Lon Of Kilgarrow, O great sorrow! Dead and gone. Dire the dolour, Erin, here and past thy border, Dire the dolour and disorder, To the schools and to the scholar, Since our Lon Is dead and gone.

CHARMS AND INVOCATIONS

CHARMS AGAINST SORROW

A charm whereunto grief must yield-- The Charm of Michael with the Shield.

Charms before which all sorrows fail-- The Palm-branch of Christ and Brigit's Veil.

The charm Christ set for Himself, when the Godhead within Him darkened; And when He cried from the Cross that His Father no longer hearkened. When you are bound down by the Cross and night is blackest before you, A charm that shall lift off sorrow's weight and to joyful hope restore you. A charm to be said at sunrise when your hands your heart are crushing, When the eyes are red with weeping and the madness of grief outrushing. A charm with not even a whisper to spare, But only the silent prayer.

ON COVERING THE FIRE FOR THE NIGHT

Let us preserve this seed of fire as Christ preserves us all, Himself a-watch above the house, Bride at its middle wall, Below the Twelve Apostles of highest heavenly sway, Guarding and defending it until the dawn of day.

MORNING WISH

O Jesu! in the morning I cry and call thee early, Blest only Son of God on high who purchased us so dearly. O guard me in the shelter of Thy most Holy Cross, All through the courses of the day keep me from sin and loss.

A CHARM AGAINST ENEMIES

Three powers are of the Evil One to curse mankind; An Evil Eye, an Evil Tongue, an Evil Mind. Three words are God's own breath and Mary's to her Son, For she in heaven had heard them, told them every one. The word of Mercy free, the singing word of Joy, The binding word of Love He gives us to employ. O may the saving might of these three holy words On Erin's men and women light, and keep them still the Lord's.

CHARM FOR A PAIN IN THE HEART

"God save you my three brothers! God save you! Now how far Have ye on foot to travel, by sun and moon and star?"

"To Olivet's own Mount we fare till we have gotten gold, Therefrom a cup to fashion the tears of Christ to hold."

"So do! And when those Precious Tears drop down into the bowl Into thy very heart they'll fall and cure thee body and soul."

THE SAFE-GUARDING OF MY SOUL

My succour from all sinful harms Be Thou, Almighty Father! And Mary, who, within her arms The King of Kings did gather! And Michael, messenger to earth From out the Heavenly City, The Twelve of Apostolic worth, And last the Lord of Pity! That so my soul, encircled by their care, Into Heaven's Golden Halls with joy may fare!

THE WHITE PATERNOSTER.

On going to sleep, think that it is the sleep of Death and that you may be summoned to the Day of the Mountain of Judgment and say:

I lay me down with God; May He rest here also, His Guardian arms around my head, Christ's Cross my limbs below.

Where wouldst, thou lay thee down? 'Twixt Mary and her Son-- Brigit and her bright mantle, Colomb and his shield handle, God and His strong Right Hand.

At morn where wouldst thou rise? With Patrick to the skies.

Lamentations

THE SONG OF CREDE, DAUGHTER OF GUARE

In the Battle of Aidne, Crede, the daughter of King Guare of Aidne, beheld Dinertach of the HyFidgenti, 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 the arrows that murder sleep," At every hour in the night's black deep; Pangs of Love through the long day ache All for the dead Dinertach's sake.

Great love of a hero from Roiny's plain Has pierced me through with immortal pain, Blasted my beauty and left me to blanch, A riven bloom on a restless branch!

Never was song like Dinertach's speech, But holy strains that to Heaven's gate reach. A front of flame without boast or pride, Yet a firm, fond mate for a fair maid's side.

A growing girl--I was timid of tongue, And never trysted with gallants young, But, since I won on into passionate age, Fierce love-longings my heart engage.

I have every bounty that life could hold, With Guare, arch-monarch of Aidne cold, But fallen away from my haughty folk, In Irluachair's field my heart lies broke.

There is chanting in glorious Aidne's meadow Under St. Colman's Church's shadow; A hero flame sinks into the tomb-- Dinertach, alas, my love and my doom!

Chaste Christ! that unto my life's last breath I trysted with Sorrow and mate with Death; At every hour of the night's black deep, These are the arrows that murder sleep!

THE DESERTED HOME

(An eleventh-century poem)

Keenly cries the blackbird now; From the bough his nest is gone. For his slaughtered mate and young Still his tongue talks on and on.

Such, alas! not long ago Was the woe my heart befell; Therefore, wherefore thine so grieves It perceives, O bird, too well!

Poor heart burnt with grief within By the sin of that rash band! Little could they guess thy care, Crying there, or understand.

From afar at thy clear call Fluttered all thy new-fledged brood. Now thy nest of love lies hid Down amid the nettles rude.

In one day the herd-boy crew Careless slew thy fledgelings fine. One the fate to thine and thee, One the fate to me and mine.

As thy mate upon the mead Chirruped, feeding at thy side, Taken in their snaring strands, At the herd-boy's hands she died.

O Thou Framer of our fates, Not an equal lot have all! Neighbour's wife and child are spared, Ours, as though uncared for, fall.

Fairy hosts with blasting death Breathed on mine a breath abhorred; Bloodless though their evil ire, It was direr than the sword.

Woe our wife! and woe our young! Sorrow-wrung our hearts complain! Of each fair and faithful one Tidings none or trace remain!

THE MOTHERS' LAMENT AT THE SLAUGHTER OF THE INNOCENTS

(Probably a poem of the eleventh century. It is written in Rosg metre, and was first published in _The Gaelic Journal_, May 1891.)

_Then, as the executioner plucked her son from her breast, one of the women said_:

"Why are you tearing Away to his doom The child of my caring, The fruit of my womb. Till nine months were o'er, His burthen I bore, Then his pretty lips pressed The glad milk from my breast, And my whole heart he filled, And my whole life he thrilled.

"All my strength dies; My tongue speechless lies; Darkened are my eyes; His breath was the breath of me; His death is the death of me!"

_Then another woman said_: