A wonderful child will be born after ages, Who will not be in lofty places, The son of a woman whose mate is unknown, He will seize the rule of the many thousands.
A rule without beginning, without end. He has created the world so that it is perfect: Earth and sea are His-- Woe to him that shall be under His unwill!
'Tis He that made the heavens, Happy he that has a white heart! He will purify multitudes with pure water, 'Tis He that will heal your sicknesses.
Not to all of you is my speech, Though its great marvel has been revealed: Let Bran listen from the crowd of the world To the wisdom told to him.
Do not sink upon a bed of sloth! Let not intoxication overcome thee! Begin a voyage across the clear sea, If perchance thou mayst reach the Land of Women.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 3: The name of one of the Isles of the Happy.]
[Footnote 4: 'Ese vapor transparente y dorado, que solo se ve en los climas meridionales.']
[Footnote 5: The name of one of the Isles of the Happy.]
THE SEA-GOD'S ADDRESS TO BRAN
Then on the morrow Bran went upon the sea. When he had been at sea two days and two nights, he saw a man in a chariot coming towards him over the sea. It was Manannan, the son of Ler, who sang these quatrains to him.
To Bran in his coracle it seems A marvellous beauty across the clear sea: To me in my chariot from afar It is a flowery plain on which he rides.
What is a clear sea For the prowed skiff in which Bran is, That to me in my chariot of two wheels Is a delightful plain with a wealth of flowers.
Bran sees A mass of waves beating across the clear sea: I see myself in the Plain of Sports Red-headed flowers that have no fault.
Sea-horses glisten in summer As far as Bran can stretch his glance: Rivers pour forth a stream of honey In the land of Manannan, son of Ler.
The sheen of the main on which thou art, The dazzling white of the sea on which thou rowest about-- Yellow and azure are spread out, It is a light and airy land.
Speckled salmon leap from the womb Out of the white sea on which thou lookest: They are calves, they are lambs of fair hue, With truce, without mutual slaughter.
Though thou seest but one chariot-rider In the Pleasant Plain of many flowers, There are many steeds on its surface, Though them thou seest not.
Large is the plain, numerous is the host, Colours shine with pure glory, A white stream of silver, stairs of gold Afford a welcome with all abundance.
An enchanting game, most delicious, They play over the luscious wine, Men and gentle women under a bush, Without sin, without transgression.
Along the top of a wood Thy coracle has swum across ridges, There is a wood laden with beautiful fruit Under the prow of thy little skiff.
A wood with blossom and with fruit On which is the vine's veritable fragrance, A wood without decay, without defect, On which is a foliage of a golden hue.
We are from the beginning of creation Without old age, without consummation of clay, Hence we expect not there might be frailty-- Transgression has not come to us.
Steadily then let Bran row! It is not far to the Land of Women: Evna with manifold bounteousness He will reach before the sun is set.
THE TRYST AFTER DEATH
Fothad Canann, the leader of a Connaught warrior-band, had carried off the wife of Alill of Munster with her consent. The outraged husband pursued them and a fierce battle was fought, in which Fothad and Alill fell by each other's hand. The lovers had engaged to meet in the evening after the battle. Faithful to his word, the spirit of the slain warrior kept the tryst and thus addressed his paramour:
Hush, woman, do not speak to me! My thoughts are not with thee. My thoughts are still in the encounter at Feic.
My bloody corpse lies by the side of the Slope of two Brinks; My head all unwashed is among warrior-bands in fierce slaughter.
It is blindness for any one making a tryst to set aside the tryst with Death: The tryst that we made at Claragh has been kept by me in pale death.
It was destined for me,--unhappy journey! at Feic my grave had been marked out; It was ordained for me--O sorrowful fight! to fall by warriors of another land.
'Tis not I alone who in the fulness of desires has gone astray to meet a woman-- No reproach to thee, though it was for thy sake--wretched is our last meeting! Had we known it would be thus, it had not been hard to desist.
The noble-faced, grey-horsed warrior-band has not betrayed me. Alas! for the wonderful yew-forest,[6] that they should have gone into the abode of clay!
Had they been alive, they would have revenged their lords; Had mighty death not intervened, this warrior-band had not been unavenged by me.
To their very end they were brave; they ever strove for victory over their foes; They would still sing a stave--a deep-toned shout,--they sprang from the race of a noble lord.
That was a joyous, lithe-limbed band to the very hour when they were slain: The green-leaved forest has received them--it was an all-fierce slaughter.
Well-armed Domnall, he of the red draught, he was the Lugh[7] of the well-accoutred hosts: By him in the ford--it was doom of death--Congal the Slender fell.
The three Eoghans, the three Flanns, they were renowned outlaws; Four men fell by each of them, it was not a coward's portion.
Swiftly Cu-Domna reached us, making for his namesake: On the hill of the encounter the body of Flann the Little will be found.
With him where his bloody bed is thou wilt find eight men: Though we thought them feeble, the leavings of the weapon of Mughirne's son.
Not feebly fights Falvey the Red; the play of his spear-strings withers the host; Ferchorb of radiant body leapt upon the field and dealt seven murderous blows.
Front to front twelve warriors stood against me in mutual fight: Not one of them all remains that I did not leave in slaughter.
Then we two exchanged spears, I and Alill, Eoghan's son: We both perished--O the fierceness of those stout thrusts! We fell by each other though it was senseless: it was the encounter of two heroes.
Do not await the terror of night on the battle-field among the slain warriors: One should not hold converse with ghosts! betake thee home, carry my spoils with thee!
Every one will tell thee that mine was not the raiment of a churl: A crimson cloak and a white tunic, a belt of silver, no paltry work!
My five-edged spear, a murderous lance, whose slaughters have been many; A shield with five circles and a boss of bronze, by which they used to swear binding oaths.
The white cup of my cup-bearer, a shining gem, will glitter before thee; My golden finger-ring, my bracelets, treasures without a flaw, King Nia Nar had brought them over the sea.
Cailte's brooch, a pin with luck, it was one of his marvellous treasures: Two heads of silver round a head of gold, a goodly piece, though small.
My draught-board--no mean treasure!--is thine; take it with thee. Noble blood drips on its rim, it lies not far hence.
Many a body of the spear-armed host lies here and there around its crimson woof; A dense bush of the ruddy oak-wood conceals it by the side of the grave.
As thou carefully searchest for it thou shouldst not speak much: Earth never covered anything so marvellous.
One half of its pieces are yellow gold, the other are white bronze; Its woof is of pearls; it is the wonder of smiths how it was wrought.
The bag for its pieces,--'tis a marvel of a story--its rim is embroidered with gold; The master-smith has left a lock upon it which no ignorant person can open.
A four-cornered casket,--it is but tiny--made of coils of red gold; One hundred ounces of white bronze have been put into it firmly.
For it is of a coil of firm red gold, Dinoll the goldsmith brought it over the sea; Even one of its clasps only has been priced at seven slave-women.[8]
Memories describe it as one of Turvey's master-works: In the time of Art--he was a luxurious king--'tis then Turvey, lord of many herds, made it.
Smiths never made any work comparable with it; Earth never hid a king's jewel so marvellous.
If thou be cunning as to its price, I know thy children will never be in want; If thou hoard it, a close treasure, none of thy offspring will ever be destitute.
There are around us here and there many spoils of famous luck: Horrible are the huge entrails which the Morrigan[9] washes.
She came to us from the edge of a spear, 'tis she that egged us on. Many are the spoils she washes, terrible the hateful laugh she laughs.
She has flung her mane over her back--it is a stout heart that will not quail at her: Though she is so near to us, do not let fear overcome thee!
In the morning I shall part from all that is human, I shall follow the warrior-band; Go to thy house, stay not here, the end of the night is at hand.
Some one will at all times remember this song of Fothad Canann; My discourse with thee shall not be unrenowned, if thou remember my bequest.
Since my grave will be frequented, let a conspicuous tomb be raised; Thy trouble for thy love is no loss of labour.
My riddled body must now part from thee awhile, my soul to be tortured by the black demon. Save for the worship of Heaven's King, love of this world is folly.