Ancient Irish Poetry Part 8

I would give my glorious kingship With the share of my father's heritage-- To the hour of my death I would forfeit it To be in thy company, my Marvan.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 14: Names of well-known plains.]

SONG OF THE SEA

A great tempest rages on the Plain of Ler, bold across its high borders Wind has arisen, fierce winter has slain us; it has come across the sea, It has pierced us like a spear.

When the wind sets from the east, the spirit of the wave is roused, It desires to rush past us westward to the land where sets the sun, To the wild and broad green sea.

When the wind sets from the north, it urges the dark fierce waves Towards the southern world, surging in strife against the wide sky, Listening to the witching song.

When the wind sets from the west across the salt sea of swift currents, It desires to go past us eastward towards the Sun-Tree, Into the broad long-distant sea.

When the wind sets from the south across the land of Saxons of mighty shields, The wave strikes the Isle of Scit, it surges up to the summit of Caladnet, And pounds the grey-green mouth of the Shannon.

The ocean is in flood, the sea is full, delightful is the home of ships, The wind whirls the sand around the estuary, Swiftly the rudder cleaves the broad sea.

With mighty force the wave has tumbled across each broad river-mouth, Wind has come, white winter has slain us, around Cantire, around the land of Alba, Slieve-Dremon pours forth a full stream.

Son of the G.o.d the Father, with mighty hosts, save me from the horror of fierce tempests!

Righteous Lord of the Feast, only save me from the horrid blast, From h.e.l.l with furious tempest!

SUMMER HAS COME

Summer has come, healthy and free, Whence the brown wood is aslope; The slender nimble deer leap, And the path of seals is smooth.

The cuckoo sings sweet music, Whence there is smooth restful sleep; Gentle birds leap upon the hill, And swift grey stags.

Heat has laid hold of the rest of the deer-- The lovely cry of curly packs!

The white extent of the strand smiles, There the swift sea is.

A sound of playful breezes in the tops Of a black oakwood is Drum Daill, The n.o.ble hornless herd runs, To whom Cuan-wood is a shelter.

Green bursts out on every herb, The top of the green oakwood is bushy, Summer has come, winter has gone, Twisted hollies wound the hound.

The blackbird sings a loud strain, To him the live wood is a heritage, The sad angry sea is fallen asleep, The speckled salmon leaps.

The sun smiles over every land,-- A parting for me from the brood of cares: Hounds bark, stags tryst, Ravens flourish, summer has come!

SONG OF SUMMER

Summer-time, season supreme!

Splendid is colour then.

Blackbirds sing a full lay If there be a slender shaft of day.

The dust-coloured cuckoo calls aloud: Welcome, splendid summer!

The bitterness of bad weather is past, The boughs of the wood are a thicket.

Panic startles the heart of the deer, The smooth sea runs apace-- Season when ocean sinks asleep, Blossom covers the world.

Bees with puny strength carry A goodly burden, the harvest of blossoms; Up the mountain-side kine take with them mud, The ant makes a rich meal.

The harp of the forest sounds music, The sail gathers--perfect peace; Colour has settled on every height, Haze on the lake of full waters.

The corncrake, a strenuous bard, discourses, The lofty cold waterfall sings A welcome to the warm pool-- The talk of the rushes has come.

Light swallows dart aloft, Loud melody encircles the hill, The soft rich mast buds, The stuttering quagmire prattles.

The peat-bog is as the raven's coat, The loud cuckoo bids welcome, The speckled fish leaps-- Strong is the bound of the swift warrior.

Man flourishes, the maiden buds In her fair strong pride.

Perfect each forest from top to ground, Perfect each great stately plain.

Delightful is the season's splendour, Rough winter has gone: Every fruitful wood shines white, A joyous peace is summer.

A flock of birds settles In the midst of meadows, The green field rustles, Wherein is a brawling white stream.

A wild longing is on you to race horses, The ranked host is ranged around: A bright shaft has been shot into the land, So that the water-flag is gold beneath it.

A timorous, tiny, persistent little fellow Sings at the top of his voice, The lark sings clear tidings: Surpa.s.sing summer-time of delicate hues!

SUMMER IS GONE

My tidings for you: the stag bells, Winter snows, summer is gone.

Wind high and cold, low the sun, Short his course, sea running high.

Deep-red the bracken, its shape all gone-- The wild-goose has raised his wonted cry.

Cold has caught the wings of birds; Season of ice--these are my tidings.