Ancient Irish Poetry Part 13

[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 s.h.i.+ning dark-blue ink.

A stream of the wisdom of blessed G.o.d 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 c.u.mmin 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d!'

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 s.h.i.+ning 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!