Are there still some who call me prince?
The King of Kings, the Lord of All
revoked my title, worked my downfall,
unhoused, unwived me for my sins.
Why did He spare my life at Moira?
Why did He grudge me death in battle?
Why ordained the hag of the mill
His hound of heaven and my fury?
The mill-hag’s millstone round my neck!
Hell roast her soul! She dragged me down
when I leaped up in agitation.
I fell for that old witch’s trick.
Then Lynchseachan was in full cry,
a bloodhound never off my trail.
I fell for his lies too and fell
among captors out of the tree.
They made me face the love I’d lost.
They tied me up and carried me
back to the house. The mockery!
I overheard their victory feast
yet gradually grew self-possessed,
for there were decent people there,
and gaming and constant laughter.
My mind was knitting up at last
but soon unravelled into nightmare.
I was for the high jump once more.
The mill-hag spun her web and swore
her innocence. I leaped for her
and leaped beyond the bounds of sense.
She challenged me a second time.
We kept in step like words in rhyme.
I set the pace and led the dance—
I cleared the skylight and the roof,
I flew away beyond the fortress
but she hung on. Through smooth and rough
I raised the wind and led the chase.
We coursed all over Ireland then.
I was the wind and she was smoke.
I was the prow and she the wake.
I was the earth and she the moon.
But always look before you leap!
Though she was fit for bog and hill,
Dunseverick gave her the spill.
She followed me down off the top
of the fort and spread-eagled
her bitch’s body in the air.
I trod the water, watching her
hit the rocks. And I was glad
to see her float in smithereens.
A crew of devils made a corpse
of her and buried it. Cursed
be the ground that housed her bones.
One night I walked across the Fews—
the hills were dark, the starlight dead—
when suddenly five severed heads,
five lantern ghouls, appeared and rose
like bats from hell, surrounding me.
Then a head spoke—another shock!
—This is the Ulster lunatic.
Let us drive him into the sea.
I went like an arrow from a bow.
My feet disdained that upland ground.
Goat-head and dog-head cursed but found
me impossible to follow.
I have deserved all this:
night-vigils, terror,
flittings across water,
women’s cried-out eyes.
68 One time during his wild career Sweeney left Slieve Lougher and landed in Feegile. He stayed there for a year among the clear streams and branches of the wood, eating red holly-berries and dark brown acorns, and drinking from the River Feegile. At the end of that time, deep grief and sorrow settled over him because of his terrible life; so he came out with this short poem:
69
Look at Sweeney now, alas!
His body mortified and numb,
unconsoled, sleepless
in the rough blast of the storm.
From Slieve Lougher I came
to the border marches of Feegile,
my diet still the usual
ivy-berries and oak-mast.
I have spent a year on the mountain
enduring my transformation,
dabbing, dabbing like a bird
at the holly-berries’ crimson.
My grief is raw and constant.
To-night all my strength is gone.
Who has more cause to lament
than Mad Sweeney of Glen Bolcain?
70 One day Sweeney went to Drum Iarann in Connacht where he stole some watercress and drank from a green-flecked well. A cleric came out of the church, full of indignation and resentment, calling Sweeney a well-fed, contented madman, and reproaching him where he cowered in the yew tree:
71
Cleric:
Aren’t you the contented one?
You eat my watercress,
then you perch in the yew tree
beside my little house.
Sweeney:
Contented’s not the word!
I am so terrified,
so panicky, so haunted
I dare not bat an eyelid.
The flight of a small wren
scares me as much, bell-man,
as a great expedition
out to hunt me down.
Were you in my place, monk,
and I in yours, think:
would you enjoy being mad?
Would you be contented?
72 Once when Sweeney was rambling and raking through Connacht he ended up in Alternan in Tireragh. A community of holy people had made their home there, and it was a lovely valley, with a turbulent river shooting down the cliff; trees fruited and blossomed on the cliff-face; there were sheltering ivies and heavy-topped orchards, there were wild deer and hares and fat swine; and sleek seals, that used to sleep on the cliff, having come in from the ocean beyond. Sweeney coveted the place mightily and sang its praises aloud in this poem:
73
Sainted cliff at Alternan,
nut grove, hazel-wood!
Cold quick sweeps of water
fall down the cliff-side.
Ivies green and thicken there,
its oak-mast is precious.
Fruited branches nod and bend
from heavy-headed apple trees.
Badgers make their setts there
and swift hares have their form;
and seals’ heads swim the ocean,
cobbling the running foam.
And by the waterfall, Colman’s son,
haggard, spent, frost-bitten Sweeney,
Ronan of Drumgesh’s victim,
is sleeping at the foot of a tree.
74 At last Sweeney arrived where Moling lived, the place that is known as St. Mullins. Just then, Moling was addressing himself to Kevin’s psalter and reading from it to his students. Sweeney presented himself at the brink of the well and began to eat watercress.
—Aren’t you the early bird? said the cleric; and continued, with Sweeney answering, as follows:
75
Moling:
So, you would steal a march on us,
up and breakfasting so early!
Sweeney:
Not so very early, priest.
Terce has come in Rome already.
Moling:
And what knowledge has a fool
about the hour of terce in Rome?
Sweeney:
The Lord makes me His oracle
from sunrise till sun’s going down.
Moling:
Then speak to us of hidden things,
give us tidings of the Lord.
Sweeney:
Not I. But if you are Moling,
you are gifted with the Word.
Moling:
Mad as you are, you are sharp-witted.
How do you know my face and name?
Sweeney:
In my days astray I rested
in this enclosure many a time.
Moling:
But Sweeney, son of Colman Cuar,
why won’t you settle in one place?
Sweeney:
The resting place that I prefer
is life in everlasting peace.
Moling:
God help you then. Do you not dread
the slippery brim of hell’s wide mouth?
Sweeney:
My one affliction is that God
denies me repose on earth.
Moling:
Come closer. Come here and share
whatever morsels you would like.
Sweeney:
There are worse things, priest, than hunger.
Imagine living without a cloak.
Moling:
Then you are welcome to my smock,
and welcome to take my cowl.
Sweeney:
Sometimes memory brings back
times it hurts me to recall.
Moling:
Are you Sweeney, the bogey-man,
escaped out of the fight at Moira?
Sweeney:
I am the early bird, the one
who scavenges, if I am Sweeney.
Moling:
Mad as you are, how does it come
you were fit to recognize me?
Sweeney:
In this enclosure many times
I watched you from a far eyrie.
Moling:
Look at this leaf of Kevin’s book,
the coilings on this psalter’s page.
Sweeney:
The yew leaf coils around my nook
in Glen Bolcain’s foliage.
Moling:
This churchyard, this flush of colour,
is there no pleasure here for you?
Sweeney:
My pleasure is great and other:
the hosting that day at Moira.
Moling:
I will sing Mass, make a hush
of high celebration.
Sweeney:
Leaping an ivy bush
is a higher calling even.
Moling:
My ministry is only toil,
the weak and strong both exhaust me.
Sweeney:
I toil to a bed on the chill
steeps of Benevenagh.
Moling:
When your end comes, will it be
death by water, in holy ground?
Sweeney:
It will be early when I die.
One of your herds will make the wound.
76 —You are more than welcome here, Sweeney, said Moling, for you are fated to live and die here. You shall leave the history of your adventures with us and receive a Christian burial in a churchyard. Therefore, said Moling, no matter how far you range over Ireland, day by day, I bind you to return to me every evening so that I may record your story.
77 All during the next year the madman kept coming back to Moling. One day he would go to Inishbofin in west Connacht, another day to lovely Assaroe. Some days he would view the clean lines of Slemish, some days he would be shivering on the Mournes. But wherever he went, every night he would be back for vespers at St. Mullins.
Moling ordered his cook to leave aside some of each day’s milking for Sweeney’s supper. This cook’s name was Muirghil and she was married to a swineherd of Moling’s called Mongan. Anyhow, Sweeney’s supper was like this: she would sink her heel to the ankle in the nearest cow-dung and fill the hole to the brim with new milk. Then Sweeney would sneak into the deserted corner of the milking yard and lap it up.
78 One night there was a row between Muirghil and another woman, in the course of which the woman said:
—If you do not prefer your husband, it is a pity you cannot take up with some other man than the looney you have been meeting all year.
The herd’s sister was within earshot and listening but she said nothing until the next morning. Then when she saw Muirghil going to leave the milk in the cow-dung beside the hedge where Sweeney roosted, she came in to her brother and said:
—Are you a man at all? Your wife’s in the hedge yonder with another man.
Jealousy shook him like a brainstorm. He got up in a sudden fury, seized a spear from a rack in the house, and made for the madman. Sweeney was down swilling the milk out of the cow-dung with his side exposed towards the herd, who let go at him with the spear. It went into Sweeney at the nipple of his left breast, went through him, and broke his back.
There is another story. Some say the herd had hidden a deer’s horn at the spot where Sweeney drank from the cow-dung and that Sweeney fell and killed himself on the point of it.
79 Enna McBracken was ringing the bell for prime at the door of the churchyard and saw what had happened. He spoke this poem:
80
This is sad, herd, this was deliberate,
outrageous, sickening and sinful.
Whoever struck here will live to regret
killing the king, the saint, the holy fool.
What good did you expect to come of it?
Repentance will be denied you at your death.
Your soul will go howling to the devil,
your body draw an unabsolved last breath.
But I expect to be with him in heaven,
united in a single strain of prayer.
The soul of the true guest is sped by psalms
on the lips of a fasting, chanting choir.
My heart is breaking with pity for him.
He was a man of fame and high birth.
He was a king, he was a madman.
His grave will be a hallowing of earth.
81 Enna went back and told Moling that Sweeney had been killed by his swineherd Mongan. Immediately, Moling and his community came along to where Sweeney lay and Sweeney repented and made his confession to Moling. He received Christ’s body and thanked God for having received it and after that was anointed by the clerics.
83
Sweeney:
There was a time when I preferred
the turtle-dove’s soft jubilation
as it flitted round a pool
to the murmur of conversation.
There was a time when I preferred
the blackbird singing on the hill
and the stag loud against the storm
to the clinking tongue of this bell.
There was a time when I preferred
the mountain grouse crying at dawn
to the voice and closeness
of a beautiful woman.
There was a time when I preferred
wolf-packs yelping and howling
to the sheepish voice of a cleric
bleating out plainsong.
You are welcome to pledge healths
and carouse in your drinking dens;
I will dip and steal water
from a well with my open palm.
You are welcome to that cloistered hush
of your students’ conversation;
I will study the pure chant
of hounds baying in Glen Bolcain.
You are welcome to your salt meat
and fresh meat in feasting-houses;
I will live content elsewhere
on tufts of green watercress.
The herd’s sharp spear wounded me
and passed clean through my body.
Ah Christ, who disposed all things, why
was I not killed at Moira?
Of all the innocent lairs I made
the length and breadth of Ireland
I remember an open bed
above the lough in Mourne.
Of all the innocent lairs I made
the length and breadth of Ireland
I remember bedding down
above the wood in Glen Bolcain.
To you, Christ, I give thanks
for your Body in communion.
Whatever evil I have done
in this world, I repent.
84 Then Sweeney’s death-swoon came over him and Moling, attended by his clerics, rose up and each of them placed a stone on Sweeney’s grave.
—The man who is buried here was cherished indeed, said Moling. How happy we were when we walked and talked along this path. And how I loved
to watch him yonder at the well. It is called the Madman’s Well because he would often eat its watercress and drink its water, and so it is named after him. And every other place he used to haunt will be cherished, too.
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