It is in the West sweet Brendan is, And Colum son of Criffan, And in the West fair Baithin shall be, And in the West shall be Adamnan.

Carry my greeting after that To Comgall of eternal life: Carry my greeting after that To the stately king of fair Navan.

Carry with thee, thou fair youth, My blessing and my benediction, One half upon Erin, sevenfold, And half upon Alba at the same time.

Carry my blessing with thee to the West, My heart is broken in my breast: Should sudden death overtake me, It is for my great love of the Gael.

Gael! Gael! beloved name! It gladdens the heart to invoke it: Beloved is Cummin of the beauteous hair, Beloved are Cainnech and Comgall.

Were all Alba mine From its centre to its border, I would rather have the site of a house In the middle of fair Derry.

It is for this I love Derry, For its smoothness, for its purity, And for its crowd of white angels From one end to another.

It is for this I love Derry, For its smoothness, for its purity; All full of angels Is every leaf on the oaks of Derry.

My Derry, my little oak-grove, My dwelling and my little cell, O living God that art in Heaven above, Woe to him who violates it!

Beloved are Durrow and Derry, Beloved is Raphoe with purity, Beloved Drumhome with its sweet acorns, Beloved are Swords and Kells!

Beloved also to my heart in the West Drumcliff on Culcinne's strand: To gaze upon fair Loch Foyle-- The shape of its shores is delightful.

Delightful it is, The deep-red ocean where the sea-gulls cry, As I come from Derry afar, It is peaceful and it is delightful.

ON ANGUS THE CULDEE (+ ca. 830)

Delightful to sit here thus By the side of the cold pure Nore: Though it was frequented, it was never a path o raids In glorious Disert Bethech.[27]

Disert Bethech, where dwelt the man Whom hosts of angels were wont to visit; A pious cloister behind a circle of crosses, Where Angus son of Oivlen used to be.

Angus from the assembly of Heaven, Here are his tomb and his grave: 'Tis hence he went to death, On a Friday, to holy Heaven.

'Tis in Clonenagh he was reared, In Clonenagh he was buried: In Clonenagh of many crosses He first read his psalms.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 27: 'Beechen Hermitage.']

COLUM CILLE THE SCRIBE

My hand is weary with writing, My sharp quill is not steady, My slender-beaked pen juts forth A black draught of shining dark-blue ink.

A stream of the wisdom of blessed God Springs from my fair-brown shapely hand: On the page it squirts its draught Of ink of the green-skinned holly.

My little dripping pen travels Across the plain of shining books, Without ceasing for the wealth of the great-- Whence my hand is weary with writing.

THE LAMENT OF THE OLD WOMAN OF BEARE

The reason why she was called the Old Woman of Beare was that she had fifty foster-children in Beare. She had seven periods of youth one after another, so that every man who had lived with her came to die of old age, and her grandsons and great-grandsons were tribes and races. For a hundred years she wore the veil which Cummin had blessed upon her head. Thereupon old age and infirmity came to her. 'Tis then she said:

Ebb-tide to me as of the sea! Old age causes me reproach. Though I may grieve thereat-- Happiness comes out of fat.

I am the Old Woman of Beare, An ever-new smock I used to wear: To-day--such is my mean estate-- I wear not even a cast-off smock.

It is riches Ye love, it is not men: In the time when we lived It was men we loved.

Swift chariots, And steeds that carried off the prize,-- Their day of plenty has been, A blessing on the King who lent them!

My body with bitterness has dropt Towards the abode we know: When the Son of God deems it time Let Him come to deliver His behest.

My arms when they are seen Are bony and thin: Once they would fondle, They would be round glorious kings.

When my arms are seen, And they bony and thin, They are not fit, I declare, To be uplifted over comely youths.

The maidens rejoice When May-day comes to them: For me sorrow is meeter, For I am wretched, I am an old hag.

I hold no sweet converse, No wethers are killed for my wedding-feast, My hair is all but grey, The mean veil over it is no pity.

I do not deem it ill That a white veil should be on my head: Time was when many cloths of every hue Bedecked my head as we drank the good ale.

The Stone of the Kings on Femen, The Chair of Ronan in Bregon, 'Tis long since storms have reached them. The slabs of their tombs are old and decayed.

The wave of the great sea talks aloud, Winter has arisen: Fermuid the son of Mugh to-day I do not expect on a visit.

I know what they are doing: They row and row across The reeds of the Ford of Alma-- Cold is the dwelling where they sleep.

'Tis 'O my God!' To me to-day, whatever will come of it. I must take my garment even in the sun:[28] The time is at hand that shall renew me.

Youth's summer in which we were I have spent with its autumn: Winter-age which overwhelms all men, To me has come its beginning.

Amen! Woe is me! Every acorn has to drop. After feasting by shining candles To be in the gloom of a prayer-house!

I had my day with kings Drinking mead and wine: To-day I drink whey-water Among shrivelled old hags.

I see upon my cloak the hair of old age, My reason has beguiled me: Grey is the hair that grows through my skin-- 'Tis thus I am an old hag.

The flood-wave And the second ebb-tide-- They have all reached me, So that I know them well.

The flood-wave Will not reach the silence of my kitchen: Though many are my company in darkness, A hand has been laid upon them all.

O happy the isle of the great sea Which the flood reaches after the ebb! As for me, I do not expect Flood after ebb to come to me.

There is scarce a little place to-day That I can recognise: What was on flood Is all on ebb.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 28: 'Je tremble a present dedans la canicule.'--Moliere, Sganarelle, scene 2.]

THE DESERTED HOME

Sadly talks the blackbird here. Well I know the woe he found: No matter who cut down his nest, For its young it was destroyed.

I myself not long ago Found the woe he now has found. Well I read thy song, O bird, For the ruin of thy home.

Thy heart, O blackbird, burnt within At the deed of reckless man: Thy nest bereft of young and egg The cowherd deems a trifling tale.

At thy clear notes they used to come, Thy new-fledged children, from afar; No bird now comes from out thy house, Across its edge the nettle grows.

They murdered them, the cowherd lads, All thy children in one day: One the fate to me and thee, My own children live no more.

There was feeding by thy side Thy mate, a bird from o'er the sea: Then the snare entangled her, At the cowherds' hands she died.

O Thou, the Shaper of the world! 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 God, 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 shield 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.