Ancient Irish Poetry Part 14

Uneven hands Thou layst on us: Our fellows at our side are spared, Their wives and children are alive.

A fairy host came as a blast To bring destruction to our house: Though bloodless was their taking off, Yet dire as slaughter by the sword.

Woe for our wife, woe for our young!

The sadness of our grief is great: No trace of them within, without-- And therefore is my heart so sad.

CORMAC MAC CULENNAIN SANG THIS

Shall I launch my dusky little coracle On the broad-bosomed glorious ocean?

Shall I go, O King of bright Heaven, Of my own will upon the brine?

Whether it be roomy or narrow, Whether it be served by crowds of hosts-- O G.o.d, wilt Thou stand by me When it comes upon the angry sea?

ALEXANDER THE GREAT

Four men stood by the grave of a man, The grave of Alexander the Proud; They sang words without falsehood Over the prince from fair Greece.

Said the first man of them: 'Yesterday there were around the king The men of the world--a sad gathering!

Though to-day he is alone.'

'Yesterday the king of the brown world Rode upon the heavy earth: Though to-day it is the earth That rides upon his neck.'

'Yesterday,' said the third wise author, 'Philip's son owned the whole world: To-day he has nought Save seven feet of earth.'

'Alexander the liberal and great Was wont to bestow silver and gold: To-day,' said the fourth man, 'The gold is here, and it is nought.'

Thus truly spoke the wise men Around the grave of the high-king: It was not foolish women's talk What those four sang.

QUATRAINS

THE SCRIBE

A hedge of trees surrounds me, A blackbird's lay sings to me; Above my lined booklet The trilling birds chant to me.

In a grey mantle from the top of bushes The cuckoo sings: Verily--may the Lord s.h.i.+eld me!-- Well do I write under the greenwood.

ON A DEAD SCHOLAR

Dead is Lon Of Kilgarrow, O great hurt!

To Ireland and beyond her border It is ruin of study and of schools.

THE CRUCIFIXION

At the cry of the first bird They began to crucify Thee, O cheek like a swan!

It were not right ever to cease lamenting-- It was like the parting of day from night.

Ah! though sore the suffering Put upon the body of Mary's Son-- Sorer to Him was the grief That was upon her for His sake.

THE PILGRIM AT ROME

To go to Rome Is much of trouble, little of profit: The King whom thou seekest here, Unless thou bring Him with thee, thou wilt not find.

HOSPITALITY

O King of stars!

Whether my house be dark or bright, Never shall it be closed against any one, Lest Christ close His house against me.

If there be a guest in your house And you conceal aught from him, 'Tis not the guest that will be without it, But Jesus, Mary's Son.

THE BLACKBIRD

Ah, blackbird, thou art satisfied Where thy nest is in the bush: Hermit that clinkest no bell, Sweet, soft, peaceful is thy note.