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.

At the feast of Allen Dermot the hardy-born bestowed thee, Dermot, the noble king, gave thee to the man of Mairg, to Murigan.

Forty years stoutly thou wast in the hand of Allen's high-king, With Murigan of mighty deeds thou never wast a year without battle.

In Wexford Murigan, the King of Vikings, gave thee to Carroll: While he was upon the yellow earth Carroll gave thee to none.

Thy bright point was a crimson point in the battle of Odba of the Foreigners, When thou leftest Aed Finnliath on his back in the battle of Odba of the noble routs.

Crimson was thy edge, it was seen; at Belach Moon thou wast proved, In the valorous battle of Alvy's Plain throughout which the fighting raged.

Before thee the goodly host broke on a Thursday at Dun Ochtair, When Aed the fierce and brilliant fell upon the hillside above Leafin.

Before thee the host broke on the day when Kelly was slain, Flannagan's son, with numbers of troops, in high lofty great Tara.

Before thee they ebbed southwards in the battle of the Boyne of the rough feats, When Cnogva fell, the lance of valour, at seeing thee, for dread of thee.

Thou wast furious, thou wast not weak, heroic was thy swift force, When Ailill Frosach of Fal[19] fell in the front of the onset.

Thou never hadst a day of defeat with Carroll of the beautiful garths. He swore no lying oath, he went not against his word.

Thou never hadst a day of sorrow, many a night thou hadst abroad; Thou hadst awaiting thee many a king with many a battle.

O sword of the kings of mighty fires, do not fear to be astray! Thou shalt find thy man of craft, a lord worthy of thee.

Who shall henceforth possess thee, or to whom wilt thou deal ruin? From the day that Carroll departed, with whom wilt thou be bedded?

Thou shalt not be neglected until thou come to the house of glorious Naas: Where Finn of the feasts is they will hail thee with 'welcome.'

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 19: A name for Ireland.]

EOCHAID ON THE DEATH OF KING AED MAC DOMNAILL UA NEILL[20]

Aed of Ailech, beloved he was to me, Woe, O God, that he should have died! Seven years with Aed of Ath I-- One month with Mael na mBo[21] would be longer!

Seven years I had with the King of Ross, Delightful was my time with the lord of Slemish, Though I were but one month with the king in the south, I know that it would weary me.

Many honours the king gave to me, To pleasure me he brought down stags: A herd of horses he gave to me in my day, The great son of the woman from Magh Ai.

Alas, O Comgall, master of harmonies, That the son of Domnaill should be food for worms! Alas that his face should be on the ground! Alas for noble Ailech without Aed!

From the day that great Aed was slain Few men on earth but are in want: Since he has died that was another Lugh,[22] It were right to shed tears of blood.

Tara is deprived of her benefactor, A blight is upon his kindred, Torture is put upon the rays of the sun, Glorious Erin is without Aed.

Fair weather shines not on the mountain-side, Fine-clustering fruit is not enjoyed, The gloom of every night is dark Since earth was put over Aed.

Ye folk of great Armagh, With whom the son of the chief lies on his back, Cause of reproach will come of it That your grave is open before Aed.

In the battle of Craeb Tholcha in the north I left my fair companions behind! Alas for the fruit of the heavy bloodshed Which severed Eochaid and Aed!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 20: Who had fallen in the battle of Craeb Tholcha, A.D. 1004.]

[Footnote 21: King of South Leinster.]

[Footnote 22: A famous mythical hero.]

ERARD MAC COISSE ON THE DEATH OF KING MALACHY II.[23]

Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath![24] Alas that thy lord is not alive! The high-king of Meath of the polished walls, His death has thrown us off our course.

Thou without games, without drinking of ale, Thou shining abode of the twisted horns! After Malachy of noble shape Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath!

I upon the green of thy smooth knolls Like Ronan's son after the Fiana, Or like a hind after her fawn, Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath!

I got three hundred speckled cups, Three hundred steeds and bridles In this famous fort of noble shape-- Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath!

After Malachy and sweet Brian,[25] And Murchad[26] that was never weak in hurdled battle, My heart has been left without a leap of vigour, Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath!

Ochone! I am the wretched phantom, Small are my wages since the three are gone. Greater than my own ruin is my cause of lament, Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath!

Och! 'tis I that am the body without head, I, Mac Coisse, chief of all poets-- Now that my skill and my vigour are gone, Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 23: King of Ireland. He died in 1022.]

[Footnote 24: The Fort of the Shields, on Lough Ennel, Co. Westmeath.]

[Footnote 25: i.e. Brian Boru, who had fallen in 1014 in the battle of Clontarf.]

[Footnote 26: Brian's son, fallen at Clontarf.]

MISCELLANEOUS

THE MONK AND HIS PET CAT

I and my white Pangur Have each his special art: His mind is set on hunting mice, Mine is upon my special craft.

I love to rest--better than any fame!-- With close study at my little book: White Pangur does not envy me: He loves his childish play.

When in our house we two are all alone-- A tale without tedium! We have--sport never-ending! Something to exercise our wit.

At times by feats of derring-do A mouse sticks in his net, While into my net there drops A difficult problem of hard meaning.

He points his full shining eye Against the fence of the wall: I point my clear though feeble eye Against the keenness of science.

He rejoices with quick leaps When in his sharp claw sticks a mouse: I too rejoice when I have grasped A problem difficult and dearly loved.

Though we are thus at all times, Neither hinders the other, Each of us pleased with his own art Amuses himself alone.

He is a master of the work Which every day he does: While I am at my own work To bring difficulty to clearness.

COLUM CILLE'S GREETING TO IRELAND

Delightful to be on the Hill of Howth Before going over the white-haired sea: The dashing of the wave against its face, The bareness of its shores and of its border.

Delightful to be on the Hill of Howth After coming over the white-bosomed sea; To be rowing one's little coracle, Ochone! on the wild-waved shore.

Great is the speed of my coracle, And its stern turned upon Derry: Grievous is my errand over the main, Travelling to Alba of the beetling brows.

My foot in my tuneful coracle, My sad heart tearful: A man without guidance is weak, Blind are all the ignorant.

There is a grey eye That will look back upon Erin: It shall never see again The men of Erin nor her women.

I stretch my glance across the brine From the firm oaken planks: Many are the tears of my bright soft grey eye As I look back upon Erin.

My mind is upon Erin, Upon Loch Lene, upon Linny, Upon the land where Ulstermen are, Upon gentle Munster and upon Meath.

Many in the East are lanky chiels, Many diseases there and distempers, Many they with scanty dress, Many the hard and jealous hearts.

Plentiful in the West the fruit of the apple-tree, Many kings and princes; Plentiful are luxurious sloes, Plentiful oak-woods of noble mast.

Melodious her clerics, melodious her birds, Gentle her youths, wise her elders, Illustrious her men, famous to behold, Illustrious her women for fond espousal.