Ancient Irish Poetry Part 12

[Footnote 26: Brian's son, fallen at Clontarf.]

MISCELLANEOUS

THE MONK AND HIS PET CAT

I and my white Pangur Have each his special art: His mind is set on hunting mice, Mine is upon my special craft.

I love to rest--better than any fame!-- With close study at my little book: White Pangur does not envy me: He loves his childish play.

When in our house we two are all alone-- A tale without tedium!

We have--sport never-ending!

Something to exercise our wit.

At times by feats of derring-do A mouse sticks in his net, While into my net there drops A difficult problem of hard meaning.

He points his full shining eye Against the fence of the wall: I point my clear though feeble eye Against the keenness of science.

He rejoices with quick leaps When in his sharp claw sticks a mouse: I too rejoice when I have grasped A problem difficult and dearly loved.

Though we are thus at all times, Neither hinders the other, Each of us pleased with his own art Amuses himself alone.

He is a master of the work Which every day he does: While I am at my own work To bring difficulty to clearness.

COLUM CILLE'S GREETING TO IRELAND

Delightful to be on the Hill of Howth Before going over the white-haired sea: The dashing of the wave against its face, The bareness of its sh.o.r.es and of its border.

Delightful to be on the Hill of Howth After coming over the white-bosomed sea; To be rowing one's little coracle, Ochone! on the wild-waved sh.o.r.e.

Great is the speed of my coracle, And its stern turned upon Derry: Grievous is my errand over the main, Travelling to Alba of the beetling brows.

My foot in my tuneful coracle, My sad heart tearful: A man without guidance is weak, Blind are all the ignorant.

There is a grey eye That will look back upon Erin: It shall never see again The men of Erin nor her women.

I stretch my glance across the brine From the firm oaken planks: Many are the tears of my bright soft grey eye As I look back upon Erin.

My mind is upon Erin, Upon Loch Lene, upon Linny, Upon the land where Ulstermen are, Upon gentle Munster and upon Meath.

Many in the East are lanky chiels, Many diseases there and distempers, Many they with scanty dress, Many the hard and jealous hearts.

Plentiful in the West the fruit of the apple-tree, Many kings and princes; Plentiful are luxurious sloes, Plentiful oak-woods of n.o.ble mast.

Melodious her clerics, melodious her birds, Gentle her youths, wise her elders, Ill.u.s.trious her men, famous to behold, Ill.u.s.trious her women for fond espousal.

It is in the West sweet Brendan is, And Colum son of Criffan, And in the West fair Baithin shall be, And in the West shall be Ad.a.m.nan.

Carry my greeting after that To Comgall of eternal life: Carry my greeting after that To the stately king of fair Navan.

Carry with thee, thou fair youth, My blessing and my benediction, One half upon Erin, sevenfold, And half upon Alba at the same time.

Carry my blessing with thee to the West, My heart is broken in my breast: Should sudden death overtake me, It is for my great love of the Gael.

Gael! Gael! beloved name!

It gladdens the heart to invoke it: Beloved is c.u.mmin of the beauteous hair, Beloved are Cainnech and Comgall.

Were all Alba mine From its centre to its border, I would rather have the site of a house In the middle of fair Derry.

It is for this I love Derry, For its smoothness, for its purity, And for its crowd of white angels From one end to another.

It is for this I love Derry, For its smoothness, for its purity; All full of angels Is every leaf on the oaks of Derry.

My Derry, my little oak-grove, My dwelling and my little cell, O living G.o.d that art in Heaven above, Woe to him who violates it!

Beloved are Durrow and Derry, Beloved is Raphoe with purity, Beloved Drumhome with its sweet acorns, Beloved are Swords and Kells!

Beloved also to my heart in the West Drumcliff on Culcinne's strand: To gaze upon fair Loch Foyle-- The shape of its sh.o.r.es is delightful.

Delightful it is, The deep-red ocean where the sea-gulls cry, As I come from Derry afar, It is peaceful and it is delightful.

ON ANGUS THE CULDEE (+ ca. 830)

Delightful to sit here thus By the side of the cold pure Nore: Though it was frequented, it was never a path o raids In glorious Disert Bethech.[27]

Disert Bethech, where dwelt the man Whom hosts of angels were wont to visit; A pious cloister behind a circle of crosses, Where Angus son of Oivlen used to be.

Angus from the a.s.sembly of Heaven, Here are his tomb and his grave: 'Tis hence he went to death, On a Friday, to holy Heaven.

'Tis in Clonenagh he was reared, In Clonenagh he was buried: In Clonenagh of many crosses He first read his psalms.

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