A SONG OF WINTER

Cold, cold!

Cold to-night is broad Moylurg, Higher the snow than the mountain-range, The deer cannot get at their food.

Cold till Doom!

The storm has spread over all: A river is each furrow upon the slope, Each ford a full pool.

A great tidal sea is each loch, A full loch is each pool: Horses cannot get over the ford of Ross, No more can two feet get there.

The fish of Ireland are a-roaming, There is no strand which the wave does not pound, Not a town there is in the land, Not a bell is heard, no crane talks.

The wolves of Cuan-wood get Neither rest nor sleep in their lair, The little wren cannot find Shelter in her nest on the slope of Lon.

Keen wind and cold ice Has burst upon the little company of birds, The blackbird cannot get a lee to her liking, Shelter for its side in Cuan-wood.

Cosy our pot on its hook, Crazy the hut on the slope of Lon: The snow has crushed the wood here, Toilsome to climb up Ben-bo.

Glenn Rye's ancient bird From the bitter wind gets grief; Great her misery and her pain, The ice will get into her mouth.

From flock and from down to rise-- Take it to heart!--were folly for thee: Ice in heaps on every ford-- That is why I say 'cold'!

ARRAN

Arran of the many stags, The sea strikes against its shoulder, Isle in which companies are fed, Ridge on which blue spears are reddened.

Skittish deer are on her peaks, Delicious berries on her manes, Cool water in her rivers, Mast upon her dun oaks.

Greyhounds are in it and beagles, Blackberries and sloes of the dark blackthorn, Her dwellings close against the woods, Deer scattered about her oak-woods.

Gleaning of purple upon her rocks, Faultless gra.s.s upon her slopes, Over her fair shapely crags Noise of dappled fawns a-skipping.

Smooth is her level land, fat are her swine, Bright are her fields, Her nuts upon the tops of her hazel-wood, Long galleys sailing past her.

Delightful it is when the fair season comes, Trout under the brinks of her rivers, Seagulls answer each other round her white cliff, Delightful at all times is Arran!

LOVE POETRY

THE SONG OF CREDE, DAUGHTER OF GUARE

In the battle of Aidne, Crede, the daughter of King Guare of Aidne, beheld Dinertach of the Hy Fidgenti, who had come to the help of Guare, with seventeen wounds upon his breast.

Then she fell in love with him. He died, and was buried in the cemetery of Colman's Church.

These are arrows that murder sleep At every hour in the bitter-cold night: Pangs of love throughout the day For the company of the man from Roiny.

Great love of a man from another land Has come to me beyond all else: It has taken my bloom, no colour is left, It does not let me rest.

Sweeter than songs was his speech, Save holy adoration of Heaven's King; He was a glorious flame, no boastful word fell from his lips, A slender mate for a maid's side.

When I was a child I was bashful, I was not given to going to trysts: Since I have come to a wayward age, My wantonness has beguiled me.

I have every good with Guare, The King of cold Aidne: But my mind has fallen away from my people To the meadow at Irluachair.

There is chanting in the meadow of glorious Aidne Around the sides of Colman's Church: Glorious flame, now sunk into the grave-- Dinertach was his name.

It wrings my pitiable heart, O chaste Christ, What has fallen to my lot: These are arrows that murder sleep At every hour in the bitter-cold night.

LIADIN AND CURITHIR

Liadin of Corkaguiney, a poetess, went visiting into the country of Connaught. There Curithir, himself a poet, made an ale-feast for her. 'Why should not we two unite, Liadin?'

saith Curithir. 'A son of us two would be famous.' 'Do not let us do so now,' saith she, 'lest my round of visiting be ruined for me. If you will come for me again at my home, I shall go with you.' That fell so. Southward he went, and a single gillie behind him with his poet's dress in a bag upon his back, while Curithir himself was in a poor garb. There were spear-heads in the bag also. He went till he was at the well beside Liadin's court. There he took his crimson dress about him, and the heads were put upon their shafts, and he stood brandishing them.

Meanwhile Liadin had made a vow of chast.i.ty; but faithful to her word she went with him. They proceed to the monastery of Clonfert, where they put themselves under the spiritual direction of c.u.mmin, son of Fiachna. He first imposes a slight probation upon them, allowing them to converse without seeing each other. Then, challenged by Liadin, he permits them a perilous freedom. In the result he banishes Curithir, who thenceforward renounces love and becomes a pilgrim. When Liadin still seeks him he crosses the sea. She returns to the scene of their penance, and shortly dies.

When all is over, c.u.mmin lovingly lays the stone where she had mourned her love, and upon which she died, over the grave of the unhappy maiden.

CURITHIR

Of late Since I parted from Liadin, Long as a month is every day, Long as a year each month.

LIADIN

Joyless The bargain I have made!

The heart of him I loved I wrung.

'Twas madness Not to do his pleasure, Were there not the fear of Heaven's King.

'Twas a trifle That wrung Curithir's heart against me: To him great was my gentleness.

A short while I was In the company of Curithir: Sweet was my intimacy with him.