Chapter 3

Once as Moling was praying in his church he saw a man coming in to him. Purple raiment he wore and a distinguished form had he. 'Well met, cleric!' says he. 'Amen!' says Moling. 'Why dost thou not salute me?' says the man. 'Who art thou?' says Moling. 'I am Christ, the Son of God,' he answers. 'I do not know that,' says Moling. 'When Christ used to come to converse with God's servants, 'twas not in purple or with royal pomp he would come, but in the shape of a leper.' 'Then dost thou not believe in me?' says the man. 'Whom dost thou suppose to be here?' 'I suppose,' says Moling, 'that it is the Devil for my hurt.' 'Thy unbelief will be ill for thee,' says the man. 'Well,' says Moling, raising the Gospel, 'here is thy successor, the Gospel of Christ.' 'Raise it not, cleric!' says the Devil; 'it is as thou thinkest: I am the man of tribulations.' 'Wherefore hast thou come?' says Moling. 'That thou mayst bestow a blessing upon me.' 'I will not bestow it,' says Moling, 'for thou dost not deserve it. Besides, what good could it do thee?' 'If,' says the Devil, 'thou shouldst go into a tub of honey and bathe therein with thy raiment on, its odour would remain upon thee unless the raiment were washed.' 'How would that affect thee?' asks Moling. 'Because, though thy blessing do nought else to me, its good luck and its virtue and its blossom will be on me externally.' 'Thou shalt not have it,' says Moling, 'for thou deservest it not.' 'Well,' said the Devil, 'then bestow the full of a curse on me.' 'What good were that to thee?' asks Moling. 'The venom and the hurt of the curse will be on the lips from which it will come.' 'Go,' says Moling; 'thou hast no right to a blessing.' 'Better were it for me that I had. How shall I earn it?' 'By service to God,' says Moling. 'Woe is me!' says the Devil, 'I cannot bring it.' 'Even a trifle of study.' 'Thine own study is not greater, and yet it helps me not.' 'Fasting, then,' says Moling. 'I have been fasting since the beginning of the world, and not the better thereof am I.' 'Making genuflexions,' says Moling. 'I cannot bend forward,' says the Devil, 'for backwards are my knees.' 'Go forth,' says Moling; 'I cannot teach thee nor help thee.' Then the Devil said:

He is pure gold, he is the sky around the sun, He is a vessel of silver with wine, He is an angel, he is holy wisdom, Whoso doth the will of the King.

He is a bird round which a trap closes, He is a leaky ship in perilous danger, He is an empty vessel, a withered tree, Who doth not the will of the King above.

He is a fragrant branch with its blossom, He is a vessel full of honey, He is a precious stone with its virtue, Whoso doth the will of God's Son from Heaven.

He is a blind nut in which there is no good, He is a stinking rottenness, a withered tree, He is a branch of a blossomless crab-apple, Whoso doth not the will of the King.

Whoso doth the will of God's Son from Heaven Is a brilliant summer-sun, Is a daïs of God of Heaven, Is a pure crystalline vessel.

He is a victorious racehorse over a smooth plain, The man that striveth after the Kingdom of great God; He is a chariot that is seen Under a triumphant king.

He is a sun that warms holy Heaven, A man with whom the Great King is pleased, He is a temple blessed, noble, He is a holy shrine bedecked with gold.

He is an altar on which wine is dealt, Round which a multitude of melodies is sung, He is a cleansed chalice with liquor, He is fair white bronze, he is gold.

MAELISU'S HYMN TO THE ARCHANGEL MICHAEL

O angel! Bear, O Michael of great miracles, To the Lord my plaint.

Hearest thou? Ask of forgiving God Forgiveness of all my vast evil.

Delay not! Carry my fervent prayer To the King, to the great King!

To my soul Bring help, bring comfort At the hour of its leaving earth.

Stoutly To meet my expectant soul Come with many thousand angels!

O soldier! Against the crooked, wicked, militant world Come to my help in earnest!

Do not Disdain what I say! As long as I live do not desert me!

Thee I choose, That thou mayst save my soul, My mind, my sense, my body.

O thou of goodly counsels, Victorious, triumphant one, Angelic slayer of Antichrist!

THE MOTHERS' LAMENT AT THE SLAUGHTER OF THE INNOCENTS

Then, as the executioner plucked her son from her breast, one of the women said:

Why do you tear from me my darling son, The fruit of my womb? It was I who bore him, My breast he drank. My womb carried him about, My vitals he sucked, My heart he filled. He was my life, 'Tis death to have him taken from me. My strength has ebbed, My speech is silenced, My eyes are blinded.

Then another woman said:

It is my son you take from me. I did not do the evil, But kill me--me! Kill not my son! My breasts are sapless, My eyes are wet, My hands shake, My poor body totters. My husband has no son, And I no strength. My life is like death. O my own son, O God! My youth without reward, My birthless sicknesses Without requital until Doom. My breasts are silent, My heart is wrung.

Then said another woman:

Ye are seeking to kill one, Ye are killing many. Infants ye slay, The fathers ye wound, The mothers ye kill. Hell with your deed is full, Heaven is shut, Ye have spilt the blood of guiltless innocents.

And yet another woman said:

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 slaughter My heart is a clot of blood From this day till Doom.

SONGS OF NATURE

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

Why, hermit Marvan, sleepest thou not Upon a feather quilt? Why rather sleepest thou abroad Upon 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 sheds Its mast upon fat swine.

The size of my shieling tiny, not too tiny, Many are its familiar paths: From its gable a sweet strain sings A she-bird in her cloak of the ousel's hue.

The stags of Oakridge leap Into the river of clear banks: Thence red Roiny can be seen, Glorious Muckraw and Moinmoy.[14]

A hiding mane of green-barked yew Supports the sky: Beautiful spot! the large green of an oak Fronting 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 water To 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 strawberries Of 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 cuckoos Above 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 wren From the hazel-bough, Beautiful hooded birds, woodpeckers, A vast multitude!

Fair white birds come, herons, seagulls, The cuckoo sings between-- No mournful music! dun heathpoults Out 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 wood Upon 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 off Than thou art.

Though thou rejoicest in thy own pleasures, Greater than any wealth; I am grateful for what is given me From my good Christ.

Without an hour of fighting, without the din of strife In my house, Grateful to the Prince who giveth every good To me in my shieling.

GUARE

I would give my glorious kingship With the share of my father's heritage-- To the hour of my death I would forfeit it To be in thy company, my Marvan.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 14: Names of well-known plains.]

SONG OF THE SEA

A great tempest rages on the Plain of Ler, bold across its high borders Wind 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 waves Towards 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

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 tops Of 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!

SONG OF SUMMER

Summer-time, season supreme! Splendid is colour then. Blackbirds sing a full lay If 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 carry A 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 sings A 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 buds In 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 settles In 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 fellow Sings at the top of his voice, The lark sings clear tidings: Surpassing summer-time of delicate hues!

SUMMER IS GONE

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.

A SONG OF WINTER

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 get Neither rest nor sleep in their lair, The little wren cannot find Shelter in her nest on the slope of Lon.

Keen wind and cold ice Has 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 bird From 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

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 crags Noise 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!

LOVE POETRY

THE SONG OF CREDE, DAUGHTER OF GUARE

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 sleep At every hour in the bitter-cold night: Pangs of love throughout the day For the company of the man from Roiny.

Great love of a man from another land Has 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 people To the meadow at Irluachair.

There is chanting in the meadow of glorious Aidne Around 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 sleep At every hour in the bitter-cold night.

LIADIN AND CURITHIR

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 late Since I parted from Liadin, Long as a month is every day, Long as a year each month.

LIADIN

Joyless The bargain I have made! The heart of him I loved I wrung.

'Twas madness Not to do his pleasure, Were there not the fear of Heaven's King.

'Twas a trifle That wrung Curithir's heart against me: To him great was my gentleness.

A short while I was In the company of Curithir: Sweet was my intimacy with him.

The music of the forest Would sing to me when with Curithir, Together with the voice of the purple sea.

Would that Nothing of all I have done Should have wrung his heart against me!

Conceal it not! He was my heart's love, Whatever else I might love.

A roaring flame Has dissolved this heart of mine-- Without him for certain it cannot live.

BARDIC POETRY

A DIRGE FOR KING NIALL OF THE NINE HOSTAGES (+ A.D. 405)

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.

TORNA

Well hast thou spoken, dear son. A bondmaid should be given thee For 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 15: Niall's father.]

[Footnote 16: Niall's mother.]

[Footnote 17: Niall's grandfather.]

[Footnote 18: _i.e._ Niall.]

THE SONG OF CARROLL'S SWORD (A.D. 909)

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.