Ancient Irish Poetry Part 7

It is my son you take from me.

I did not do the evil, But kill me--me!

Kill not my son!

My b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 G.o.d!

My youth without reward, My birthless sicknesses Without requital until Doom.

My b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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.

h.e.l.l 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 G.o.d'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 s.h.i.+eling in the wood, None knows it save my G.o.d: An ash-tree on the hither side, a hazel-bush beyond, A huge old tree encompa.s.ses 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 s.h.i.+eling 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 ma.s.s 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, G.o.d 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, woodp.e.c.k.e.rs, A vast mult.i.tude!

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 s.h.i.+eling.

GUARE