Ancient Irish Poetry Part 6

We lived in the great world of Banva[13]

Without sullying soul or body, My flas.h.i.+ng eye full of love for you, Like a poor innocent untempted by evil.

Your just counsel is ever ready, Wherever we are we seek it: To love your penetrating wisdom is better Than glib discourse with a king.

Since then you have slept with four men after me, Without folly or falling away: I know, I hear it on all sides, You are pure, without sin from man.

At last, after weary wanderings, You have come to me again, Darkness of age has settled on your face: Sinless your life draws near its end.

You are still dear to me, faultless one, You shall have welcome from me without stint; You will not let us be drowned in torment: We will earnestly practise devotion with you.

The lasting world is full of your fame, Far and wide you have wandered on every track: If every day we followed your ways, We should come safe into the presence of dread G.o.d.

You leave an example and a bequest To every one in this world, You have taught us by your life: Earnest prayer to G.o.d is no fallacy.

Then may G.o.d grant us peace and happiness!

May the countenance of the King s.h.i.+ne brightly upon us When we leave behind us our withered bodies.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 13: A name for Ireland.]

THE DEVIL'S TRIBUTE TO MOLING

Once as Moling was praying in his church he saw a man coming in to him. Purple raiment he wore and a distinguished form had he. 'Well met, cleric!' says he. 'Amen!' says Moling.

'Why dost thou not salute me?' says the man. 'Who art thou?'

says Moling. 'I am Christ, the Son of G.o.d,' he answers. 'I do not know that,' says Moling. 'When Christ used to come to converse with G.o.d's servants, 'twas not in purple or with royal pomp he would come, but in the shape of a leper.'

'Then dost thou not believe in me?' says the man. 'Whom dost thou suppose to be here?' 'I suppose,' says Moling, 'that it is the Devil for my hurt.' 'Thy unbelief will be ill for thee,' says the man. 'Well,' says Moling, raising the Gospel, 'here is thy successor, the Gospel of Christ.'

'Raise it not, cleric!' says the Devil; 'it is as thou thinkest: I am the man of tribulations.' 'Wherefore hast thou come?' says Moling. 'That thou mayst bestow a blessing upon me.' 'I will not bestow it,' says Moling, 'for thou dost not deserve it. Besides, what good could it do thee?'

'If,' says the Devil, 'thou shouldst go into a tub of honey and bathe therein with thy raiment on, its odour would remain upon thee unless the raiment were washed.' 'How would that affect thee?' asks Moling. 'Because, though thy blessing do nought else to me, its good luck and its virtue and its blossom will be on me externally.' 'Thou shalt not have it,' says Moling, 'for thou deservest it not.' 'Well,'

said the Devil, 'then bestow the full of a curse on me.'

'What good were that to thee?' asks Moling. 'The venom and the hurt of the curse will be on the lips from which it will come.' 'Go,' says Moling; 'thou hast no right to a blessing.' 'Better were it for me that I had. How shall I earn it?' 'By service to G.o.d,' says Moling. 'Woe is me!'

says the Devil, 'I cannot bring it.' 'Even a trifle of study.' 'Thine own study is not greater, and yet it helps me not.' 'Fasting, then,' says Moling. 'I have been fasting since the beginning of the world, and not the better thereof am I.' 'Making genuflexions,' says Moling. 'I cannot bend forward,' says the Devil, 'for backwards are my knees.' 'Go forth,' says Moling; 'I cannot teach thee nor help thee.'

Then the Devil said:

He is pure gold, he is the sky around the sun, He is a vessel of silver with wine, He is an angel, he is holy wisdom, Whoso doth the will of the King.

He is a bird round which a trap closes, He is a leaky s.h.i.+p in perilous danger, He is an empty vessel, a withered tree, Who doth not the will of the King above.

He is a fragrant branch with its blossom, He is a vessel full of honey, He is a precious stone with its virtue, Whoso doth the will of G.o.d's Son from Heaven.

He is a blind nut in which there is no good, He is a stinking rottenness, a withered tree, He is a branch of a blossomless crab-apple, Whoso doth not the will of the King.

Whoso doth the will of G.o.d's Son from Heaven Is a brilliant summer-sun, Is a das of G.o.d of Heaven, Is a pure crystalline vessel.

He is a victorious racehorse over a smooth plain, The man that striveth after the Kingdom of great G.o.d; He is a chariot that is seen Under a triumphant king.

He is a sun that warms holy Heaven, A man with whom the Great King is pleased, He is a temple blessed, n.o.ble, He is a holy shrine bedecked with gold.

He is an altar on which wine is dealt, Round which a mult.i.tude of melodies is sung, He is a cleansed chalice with liquor, He is fair white bronze, he is gold.

MAELISU'S HYMN TO THE ARCHANGEL MICHAEL

O angel!

Bear, O Michael of great miracles, To the Lord my plaint.

Hearest thou?

Ask of forgiving G.o.d Forgiveness of all my vast evil.

Delay not!

Carry my fervent prayer To the King, to the great King!

To my soul Bring help, bring comfort At the hour of its leaving earth.

Stoutly To meet my expectant soul Come with many thousand angels!

O soldier!

Against the crooked, wicked, militant world Come to my help in earnest!

Do not Disdain what I say!

As long as I live do not desert me!

Thee I choose, That thou mayst save my soul, My mind, my sense, my body.

O thou of goodly counsels, Victorious, triumphant one, Angelic slayer of Antichrist!

THE MOTHERS' LAMENT AT THE SLAUGHTER OF THE INNOCENTS

Then, as the executioner plucked her son from her breast, one of the women said:

Why do you tear from me my darling son, The fruit of my womb?

It was I who bore him, My breast he drank.

My womb carried him about, My vitals he sucked, My heart he filled.

He was my life, 'Tis death to have him taken from me.

My strength has ebbed, My speech is silenced, My eyes are blinded.

Then another woman said: