cut through the shield-wall; as was only fitting
for men of their lineage, they often carried arms
against some foe in defence of their land,
their treasure, their homes. The enemy perished,
fated Scots and seafarers
fell in the fight; from the hour when that great
constellation the sun, the burning candle
of God eternal, first glides above the earth
until at last that lordly creation
sinks into its bower, the battlefield flowed
with dark blood. Many a warrior lay there,
spreadeagled by spears, many a Norse seafarer
stabbed above his shield and many a weary Scot,
surfeited by war. All day,
in troops together, the West Saxons
pursued those hateful people,
hewed down the fugitives fiercely from behind
with their sharpened swords. The Mercians did not stint
hard handplay to any of the heroes
who, fated to fight, sought this land
with Anlaf, sailed in the ship’s hold
over the surging sea. Five young kings
sprawled on that field of battle,
put to sleep by swords; likewise seven
of Anlaf’s earls and countless in the host,
seafarers and Scots. There, the Norse king
was forced to flee, driven to the ship’s prow
with a small bodyguard; the little ship
scurried out to sea, the king sped
over the dark waves and so saved his life.
Constantine, too, (a man of discretion)
fled north to the comforts of his own country;
deprived of kinsmen and comrades cut down
in the strife, that old warrior
had no reason whatsoever to relish
the swordplay; he left his son
savaged by weapons on that field of slaughter,
a mere boy in battle. That wily, grizzled warrior
had no grounds at all to boast about the fight,
and neither did Anlaf; with their leavings
of an army, they could scarcely exult
that things went their own way
in the thick of battle – at the crash of standards
and the clash of spears, at the conflict of weapons
and struggle of men – when they grappled
on that slaughter-field with Eadweard’s sons.
Then the Norsemen made off in their nailed boats,
sad survivors shamed in battle,
they crossed the deep water from Dingesmere
to the shelter of Dublin, Ireland once more.
Likewise both brothers together,
king and prince, returned to Wessex,
their own country, exulting in war.
They left behind them to devour the corpses,
relish the carrion, the horny-beaked raven
garbed in black, and the grey-coated
eagle (a greedy war-hawk)
with its white tail, and that grey beast,
the wolf in the wood. Never, before this,
were more men in this island slain
by the sword’s edge – as books and aged sages
confirm – since Angles and Saxons sailed here
from the east, sought the Britons over the wide seas,
since those warsmiths hammered the Welsh,
and earls, eager for glory, overran the land.
ANON
translated by Kevin Crossley-Holland
The King of Connacht
‘Have you seen Hugh,
The Connacht king in the field?’
‘All that we saw
Was his shadow under his shield.’
ANON
translated by Frank O’Connor
Wulf
The men of my people will hunt him as game.
They will kill him if he comes with force.
It is different with us.
Wulf is on one shore, I on another,
fast is that island, thickened with fens;
fierce are the men who guard it:
they will kill him if he comes with force.
It is different with us.
It was rainy weather, and I sat down and wept,
and grieved for my Wulf, his far wanderings,
when a battle-quick captain laid me down;
that was peace for a moment, but only a moment.
Wulf, my Wulf, it was wanting you
that made me sick, your never coming,
the unanswered heart, no mere starvation.
Do you hear, Eadwacer? Wulf will carry
our whelp to the woods.
Men easily break what is never bound.
Our song, for one.
ANON
translated by Matthew Hollis
‘Wind fierce to-night’
Wind fierce to-night.
Mane of the sea whipped white.
I am not afraid. No ravening Norse
On course through quiet waters.
ANON
translated by Seamus Heaney
The Wife’s Lament
I sing this poem full of grief.
Full of sorrow about my life.
Ready to say the cruel state
I have endured, early and late,
And never more I will tell
Than now – now that exile
Has fallen to me with all its pain.
My lord had gone, had fled away
Over the sea. The break of day
Found me grieving for a prince
Who had left his people. Then at once
I set out on my journey,
Little more than a refugee,
Lacking a retinue and friends,
With needy means and needy ends.
They plotted together, his kith and kin.
They met in secret, they made a plan
To keep us as far apart, away
From each other, night and day
As ever they could while making sure
I would feel anguish and desire.
My lord and master made his will
Plain to me: He said, be still:
Stay right here, in this place.
And here I am – penniless, friendless,
Lacking him, my heart’s companion
And sad indeed because our union
Suited me so well, so well
And for so long. And yet the real
State of his heart, the actual weakness
Of his mind, the true darkness
Of murderous sin was hidden away.
And yet I well remember the day,
Our singular joy on this earth
When we two vowed that only death
Could separate us. Now I see
Love itself has deserted me:
Love that was so true, so trusted
Is now as if it never existed.
Wherever I go, far or near,
Enmity springs from what is dear.
I was commanded to this grove
Under an oak tree, to this cave –
An ancient cave – and I am filled
With longing here where hedges, wild
With briars, valleys, rolling,
Steep hills make a joyless dwelling.
Often here, the fact of his leaving
Seizes my heart. There are lovers living
On this earth who keep their beds
While I am walking in the woods
Through these caves alone at dawn.
Here I sit. Here I mourn,
Through the summer hours, all my woes,
My exiled state. I can’t compose
My careworn heart nor ease the strife
Of that desire which is my life.
Let a young man be sober, tough
And sunny withal however weighed
Down his soul, however sad.
May his self be i
ts only source.
My lost lord, my lover-felon –
Let him be cast from his land alone
By an icy cliff in a cold storm.
Let his own mind bedevil him
With weariness as the water flows
Far below his makeshift house.
Let my weary friend beside the sea
Suffer his cruel anxiety.
Let him be reminded in this place
Of another dwelling: all its grace,
And all the affliction, all the cost
Of longing for a love that’s lost.
ANON
translated by Eavan Boland
Exile
What happier fortune can one find
Than with the girl who pleased one’s mind
To leave one’s home and friends behind
And sail on the first favouring wind?
ANON
translated by Frank O’Connor
from The Seafarer
I sing my own true story, tell my travels,
How I have often suffered times of hardship
In days of labour, and have undergone
Bitter anxiety, my troubled home
On many a ship has been the heaving waves,
Where grim night-watch has often been my lot
At the ship’s prow as it beat past the cliffs.
Oppressed by cold my feet were bound by frost
In icy bonds, while worries simmered hot
About my heart, and hunger from within
Tore the sea-weary spirit. He who lives
Most easily on land knows not how I
Have spent my winter on the ice-cold sea,
Wretched and anxious on the paths of exile,
Lacking dear friends, hung round by icicles,
While hail flew past in showers. There I heard nothing
But the resounding sea, the ice-cold waves.
Sometimes I made the song of the wild swan
My pleasure, or the gannet’s call, the cry
Of curlews for the missing mirth of men,
The singing gull instead of mead in hall.
Storms beat the rocky cliffs, and icy-winged
The tern replied, the horn-beaked eagle shrieked.
I had no patron there who might have soothed
My desolate spirit. He can little know
Who, proud and flushed with wine, has spent his time
With all the joys of life among the cities
Rather than baleful wanderings, how I,
Weary, have often suffered on the seas.
Night’s shadow darkened, snow came from the north,
Frost bound the ground and hail fell on the earth,
Coldest of corns. And yet the heart’s desires
Incite me now that I myself should go
On towering seas among the salt waves’ play;
And all the time the heartfelt wishes urge
The spirit to venture, that I should go forth
To find the lands of strangers far away.
ANON
translated by Richard Hamer
‘There’s a lady in these parts’
There’ s a lady in these parts
whose name I’m slow to divulge
but she’s known to let off farts
like stones from a catapult
ANON
translated by Maurice Riordan
The Wish of Manchán of Liath
I wish, O son of the Living God, ancient eternal King, for a secret hut in the wilderness that it may be my dwelling.
A very blue shallow well to be beside it, a clear pool for washing away sins through the grace of the Holy Ghost.
A beautiful wood close by around it on every side, for the nurture of many-voiced birds, to shelter and hide it.
Facing the south for warmth, a little stream across its enclosure, a choice ground with abundant bounties which would be good for every plant.
A few sage disciples, I will tell their number, humble and obedient, to pray to the King.
Four threes, three fours, fit for every need, two sixes in the church, both south and north.
Six couples in addition to me myself, praying through the long ages to the King who moves the sun.
A lovely church decked with linen, a dwelling for God of Heaven; then, bright candles over the holy white Scriptures.
One room to go to for the care of the body, without wantonness, without voluptuousness, without meditation of evil.
This is the housekeeping I would undertake, I would choose it without concealing; fragrant fresh leeks, hens, speckled salmon, bees.
My fill of clothing and of food from the King of good fame, and for me to be sitting for a while praying to God in every place.
ANON
translated by Kenneth Hurlstone Jackson
The Praises of God
How foolish the man
Who does not raise
His voice and praise
With joyful words,
As he alone can,
Heaven’s High King.
To Whom the light birds
With no soul but air,
All day, everywhere
Laudation sing.
ANON
translated by W. H. Auden
The End of Clonmacnois
‘Whence are you, learning’s son?’
‘From Clonmacnois I come
My course of studies done,
I’m off to Swords again.’
‘How are things keeping there?’
‘Oh, things are shaping fair –
Foxes round churchyards bare
Gnawing the guts of men.’
ANON
translated by Frank O’Connor
Winter Cold
Cold, cold, chill tonight is wide Moylurg; the snow is higher than a mountain, the deer cannot get at its food.
Eternal cold! The storm has spread on every side; each sloping furrow is a river and every ford is a full mere.
Each full lake is a great sea and each mere is a full lake; horses cannot get across the ford of Ross, no more can two feet get there.
The fishes of Ireland are roving, there is not a strand where the wave does not dash, there is not a town left in the land, not a bell is heard, no crane calls.
The wolves of Cuan Wood do not get repose or sleep in the lair of wolves; the little wren does n ot find shelter for her nest on the slope of Lon.
Woe to the company of little birds for the keen wind and the cold ice! The blackbird with its dusky back does not find a bank it would like, shelter for its side in the Woods of Cuan.
Snug is our cauldron on its hook, restless the blackbird on Leitir Cró; snow has crushed the wood here, it is difficult to climb up Benn Bó.
The eagle of brown Glen Rye gets affliction from the bitter wind; great is its misery and its suffering, the ice will get into its beak.
It is foolish for you – take heed of it – to rise from quilt and feather bed; there is much ice on every ford; that is why I say ‘Cold!’
ANON
translated by Kenneth Hurlstone Jackson
Durham
Known throughout Britain this noble city.
Its steep slopes and stone buildings
are thought a wonder; weirs contain
its fast river; fish of all kinds
thrive here in the thrusting waters.
A great forest has grown up here,
thickets throng with wild creatures;
deer drowse in the deep dales.
Everyone knows this renowned town
holds the body of blessèd Cuthbert,
also the holy head of Oswald,
lion of England, Eadberch and Eadfrith,
brothers in battle, the bishop Aidan
and here besides the bishop Athelwold,
learnèd Bede and the abbot Basil,
inspiring tutor to Cuthbert in youth
who gladly took his grave instruction.
Together with these
tombs in the minster
numerous recognised relics remain
that work wonders, as records say,
where worthy men await Judgment Day.
ANON
translated by Derek Mahon
Advice to Lovers
The way to get on with a girl
Is to drift like a man in a mist,
Happy enough to be caught,
Happy to be dismissed.
Glad to be out of her way,
Glad to rejoin her in bed,
Equally grieved or gay
To learn that she’s living or dead.
ANON
translate d by Frank O’Connor
from Sweeney Astray
The Mournes are cold tonight,
my quarters are desolate:
no milk or honey in this land
of snowdrift and gusting wind.
In a sharp-branched holly tree
I shiver and waste away,
chilled to the bone, camped out
up here on the naked summit.
The pools are ice, frost hardens on me.
Then I shake and break free,
coming alive like a fanned ember
in winds sweeping north from Leinster,
dreaming dreams of autumn days
round Hallowe’en and All Hallows,
longing for my old ground –
the clear waters of Glen Bolcain.
Astray no more then east or west,
blizzards whipping my bare face,
atremble no more in some den,
The Map and the Clock Page 3