Frank O’Connor
Speak No Evil
You want me thrown out of the country, Cinaed,
although I’ve committed no crime;
why shouldn’t I do with a sweetie at court
what I do with my wife all the time?
A jealous old codger’s accused me
– God blast him’s my solitary wish –
I’d no more eye up his lady-wife’s dowry
than a cat would lap milk from a dish,
a buck would jump over high fencing,
a salmon leap up for a fly,
a woman be devilish cunning
or a man call for beer when he’s dry.
I’ll turn a blind eye to her come-ons
in respect for her husband so dear
till a boar is looked up to by banbhs
and honey proves lure for a bear.
As for evidence that I’ve been sinning
with Gormlai of Ford-Between-Lips?
it’s just that she jiggled her lovely bare thighs
while my hands were caressing her hips.
You surprised me on the grass bank beside her
as I nibbled her ears, lips and throat;
and somehow the sight gave rise to the story
that I have the itch of the goat.
Why ever should you put it about
that your friend is a randy young devil?
if you want to stay pals with me, Cinaed,
you’d better see – and speak – no evil.
PC
Heroes
ANONYMOUS
from Táin Bó Cuailnge
Fedelm’s Vision of Cúchulainn
I see a battle: a blond man
with much blood about his belt
and a hero-halo round his head.
His brow is full of victories.
Seven hard heroic jewels
are set in the iris of his eye.
His jaws are settled in a snarl.
He wears a looped, red tunic.
A noble countenance I see,
working effect on womenfolk;
a young man of sweet colouring;
a form dragonish in the fray.
His great valour brings to mind
Cúchulainn of Murtheimne,
the hound of Culann, full of fame.
Who he is I cannot tell
but I see, now, the whole host
coloured crimson by his hand.
A giant on the plain I see,
doing battle with the host,
holding in each of his two hands
four short quick swords.
I see him hurling against that host
two gae bolga and a spear
and an ivory-hilted sword,
each weapon to its separate task.
He towers on the battlefield
in breastplate and red cloak.
Across the sinister chariot-wheel
the Warped Man deals death
– that fair form I first beheld
melted to a mis-shape.
I see him moving to the fray:
take warning, watch him well,
Cúchulainn, Sualdam’s son!
Now I see him in pursuit.
Whole hosts he will destroy,
making dense massacre.
In thousands you will yield your heads.
I am Fedelm. I hide nothing.
The blood starts from warrior’s wounds
– total ruin – at his touch:
your warriors dead, the warriors
of Deda mac Sin prowling loose;
torn corpses, women wailing,
because of him – the Forge-Hound.
Thomas Kinsella
The Morrígan’s Chant to the Brown Bull
restless does the Dark Bull know death-dealing slaughter
secret that the raven wrings from writhing soldiers
as the Dark One grazes on the dark green grasses
waving meadows blossoming with necks and flowers
lowing cattle of the Badb the groans of battle
armies ground to dust the raven struts on corpses
war-clouds raging over Cúailnge day and night
kith and kin lie down to join the tribes of dead
Ciaran Carson
Cuchulainn’s Appeal to Ferdiad
Come not here, nor helmet don,
O Ferdiad, Daman’s son;
Worst for thee will be the blow,
Though it bring a world of woe.
Come not here, with wrongful strife,
My hands hold thy last of life;
Why hast not bethought thee well
How my mighty foemen fell?
Art not bought with weapons bright,
Purple belt, and armour light?
She for whom thy weapons shine
Shall not, Daman’s son, be thine.
Mave’s fair daughter, Findabar,
Brilliant though her beauties are,
Though her form has ev’ry grace,
Her thou never shalt embrace.
King’s daughter is Findabar,
Pledged to thee for price of war;
Pledged to other chiefs was she,
Whom she led to death, like thee.
Break our vow of peace not here,
Break not friendship, long and dear;
Break not thou thy plighted word,
Come not hither, with the sword.
They have pledged the peerless maid
Fifty times for battle aid;
Fifty times fit meed I gave
Ev’ry champion found a grave.
Who than Ferbeth was more proud?
Heroes used his court to crowd;
His high rage was soon brought low,
Him I slew with but a blow.
Daré, too, how rude his fate!
Loved by maids of high estate;
Fame afar his name had told,
His robe glowed with threaded gold.
Should she be mine, on whom smiles
All the isle’s most valiant youth, –
I would crimson not thy breast
East or West, or North or South!
George Sigerson
Cú Chulainn’s Lament over Fer Diad
It was all play, all sport
till Fer Diad came to the ford.
We were brought up the same,
with the same rights,
the same good foster-mother –
she of the great name.
It was all play, all sport
till Fer Diad came to the ford –
we had the same skills,
the same fire and force.
Scáthach gave two shields,
one to Fer Diad, one to me.
It was all play, all sport
till Fer Diad came to the ford –
Ah, pillar of gold
I cut down in the ford,
you were the fierce bull
that towered above all!
It was all play, all sport
till Fer Diad came to the ford –
ferocious lion, brave
overwhelming wave!
It was all play, all sport
till Fer Diad came to the ford –
I thought beloved Fer Diad
would live forever after me –
yesterday, a mountain-side,
today, nothing but a shade.
Three multitudes on the Táin
I took on board as my foes –
great men, horses and cattle
slaughtered in their countless droves.
As for Crúachan’s grand army,
of those incalculable hordes
between a third and a half
were killed in my savage sport.
Never fought on battle-field,
nor sucked at Banba’s breast,
nor voyaged over land or sea,
a prince so regally possessed.
Ciaran Carson
POEMS OF TH
E FIANNA
The Praise of Fionn
Patrick you chatter too loud
And lift your crozier too high,
Your stick would be kindling soon
If my son Osgar stood by.
If my son Osgar and God
Wrestled it out on the hill
And I saw Osgar go down
I’d say that your God fought well.
But how could the God you praise
And his mild priests singing a tune
Be better than Fionn the swordsman,
Generous, faultless Fionn?
Just by the strength of their hands
The Fenians’ battles were fought,
With never a spoken lie,
Never a lie in thought.
There never sat priest in church
A tuneful psalm to raise
Better spoken than these
Scarred in a thousand frays.
Whatever your monks have called
The law of the King of Grace,
That was the Fenians’ law;
His home is their dwelling-place.
If happier house than Heaven
There be, above or below,
’Tis there my master Fionn
And his fighting men will go.
Ah, priest, if you saw the Fenians
Filling the strand beneath
Or gathered in streamy Naas
You would praise them with every breath.
Patrick, ask of your God
Does he remember their might,
Or has he seen east or west
Better men in a fight?
Or known in his own land
Above the stars and the moon
For wisdom, courage and strength
A man the like of Fionn?
Frank O’Connor
Largesse
Had the multitudinous leaves been gold
the autumn forests let fall,
and the waves been silver coins –
still Fionn would have given them all.
PC
The Blackbird of Derrycairn
Stop, stop and listen for the bough top
Is whistling and the sun is brighter
Than God’s own shadow in the cup now!
Forget the hour-bell. Mournful matins
Will sound, Patric, as well at nightfall.
Faintly through mist of broken water
Fionn heard my melody in Norway.
He found the forest track, he brought back
This beak to gild the branch and tell, there,
Why men must welcome in the daylight.
He loved the breeze that warns the black grouse,
The shout of gillies in the morning
When packs are counted and the swans cloud
Loch Erne, but more than all those voices
My throat rejoicing from the hawthorn.
In little cells behind a cashel,
Patric, no handbell gives a glad sound.
But knowledge is found among the branches.
Listen! That song that shakes my feathers
Will thong the leather of your satchels.
Austin Clarke
Scél Lem Dúib
Here’s a song –
stags give tongue
winter snows
summer goes.
High cold blow
sun is low
brief his day
seas give spray.
Fern clumps redden
shapes are hidden
wildgeese raise
wonted cries.
Cold now girds
wings of birds
icy time –
that’s my rime.
Flann O’Brien
Lullaby and Reply
GRÁINNE
Sleep just a little, my darling,
you have nothing whatever to fear;
you, the lad I have given my love to,
sleep, sleep, Diarmuid my dear.
Soundly, soundly sleep, Diarmuid,
Clan Duibne’s noble heir,
you’re more to me than I am to myself
so I shall watch over you here.
Sleep, go on sleep – bless you – sleep
to the hush of the Strong Fields’ Spring,
you are the delicate foam thrown up
by strenuous waters meeting.
Sleep the sleep slept in the south
by Fidach of the intricate staves
when he’d spirited Morann’s daughter
past Red Branch Conall’s love.
Or the sleep slept in the faraway north
by Finnchad of Assaroe
when he’d carried off lovely Sláine
from Fáilbe, his blunt-nosed foe.
Sleep the sleep slept in the west
by Áine, Gáilían’s girl,
when she’d crept away by torchlight
with Dubtach, the raven-curled.
Or the sleep slept long ago in the east
by Dedaid, the daring and proud,
when he’d stolen Coinchenn from Deichell
whose sword-tip is darkened with blood.
Dear rampart of old Greek valour
I shall watch over you here;
you know that my heart will break
if you ever slip from my care.
Dear warrior of Carman’s lake
to part us two would be
to part children of one womb
or rip the soul from the body.
My dark spell will protect you
from Caoilte’s avenging leap:
death and sorrow shall never come near
to leave you in lasting sleep.
DIARMUID:
The antlered stag far off in the east
bells through the night without sleeping;
straying alone through the grove of the blackbirds
he has never the least thought of sleeping.
The hornless hind in search of her fawn
laments through the night without sleeping;
she skitters and noses past brushwood and briar
nervous, alert – and not sleeping.
The bustling linnet that whistles above
the deeply twined leaves is not sleeping;
those leaves are alive with many small thrushes
and not one of those thrushes is sleeping.
The duck that glides on the smooth stream all night
works two busy paddles, not sleeping;
she never lets up or pauses at all
but swims through the dark without sleeping.
Listen! Tonight the curlew does not sleep
but soars above the storm clouds’ gathering;
I hear its strong clear vigilant call
– and I answer that call by not sleeping.
PC
Caoilte Laments the Passing of the Fianna
Windswept, untenanted, rises Forad’s high hill,
once the look-out of sword-master Fionn;
his war-band has vanished, like the hero himself:
no one hunts now on Allen’s wide plain.
The very noblest of households has crumbled,
and who today values high birth?
Illustrious captains who surrounded great Fionn
are ignored now forever in earth.
Roamers over forest and valley, the Fianna
to their deep resting places have gone;
how bitter a fate it is to outlive them
– brave Diarmuid and black-fleeced Conán,
Goll MacMorna from the lowlands of Connaught
and Aillill, whom the hundreds obeyed;
Eogan of the great grey glittering spear
and Conall, ever first into fray.
I mutter their names over and over
and can scarcely believe they are lying,
Dub Drumann among them, covered in clay,
while I am still breathing here, sighing
in grief for my warrior companions
I peer out tonight from Fionn’s ancient eyrie
and see nothing and no one to love.
PC
DALLÁN MAC MÓIRE
(fl. c.900)
from The Song of the Sword of Cerball
Slicing, shuttling sword of Cerball,
weaver through the field of battle,
blade that knows how to swing
and decapitate a king,
all hail! Plunder-ready,
in royal fist ever steady,
sharer of the spoils of war
with kings, whose one friend you are!
Generations of noblest hands
in Leinster’s spreading fruitful lands
have grasped you; in noisy
combat you’ve kept your poise
as, swung by stout unyielding men
you’ve torn through shield, ribcage, skin
and sent many a proud young head
broken to an early bed.
Forty happy years, you boast,
you spent with Eana of the Hosts
and never met with mishap
– so sure his grip.
Eana gave you, precious one,
to Dunlang, his warlike son,
who thirty years looked after you
until the day you ran him through.
Then to many a well-horsed man
in battle’s broils you lent command
until for sixteen hard fought years
you stood by Diarmuid – rigid, feared.
At a great feast in Allen once
Diarmuid gave you to a prince
and you became the trusted ward
of Murrigan, Mairge’s lord.
Two-score years the palm you felt
of Murrigan about your hilt
and never once had long to wait
unsheathing for fight.
At last Murrigan of the Gall
in Carman gave you to Cerball
and Cerball – that wisest man –
he gave you to no one.
PC
ANONYMOUS
from Buile Shuibhne (The Frenzy of Sweeney)
First Year in the Wilderness
A year to last night
I have lodged there in branches
from the flood-tide to the ebb-tide
naked.
Bereft of fine women-folk,
the brooklime for a brother –
our choice for a fresh meal
is watercress always.
Without accomplished musicians
without generous women,
no jewel-gift for bards –
The Penguin Book of Irish Poetry Page 13