The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | ||
FEARGAL MAC CONGAL.
Much of the early history of Ireland is obscure, but the incident of the complaint and prophecy of the hermit of Killin, whose black cow had been slain by marauders, is tolerably well authenticated. The cause of the fatal Battle of Almain, at which King Feargal fell (about A.D. 718), was the attempt to collect the odious tribute of Leinster. This special tax had been imposed by Tuathal the Legitimate, which the Constitution of St. Patrick confirmed. The King of Leinster was not only compelled to give yearly large herds of cattle, but also to send to the Ard-righ [awrdree], or chief king, i.e., king of all Ireland, at Tara, one hundred and fifty young men and maidens to do the menial work of the palace. This degrading act of vassalage was made sure by the division of the cattle tribute, two thirds of which were divided between Connaught and Ulster, and the remaining third between Munster and the Queen of Ireland. Of course, Leinster evaded or denied this tax whenever opportunity offered, and this led to many bloody wars, with varying results. Aodh Roin, who figures in the ballad, and who is there made King of Leinster, through poetical need, was really the Prince of Down (Ulidia) and one of Feargal's vassals. Hugh V., Feargal's son, afterward overcame this troublesome fellow, and cut off his head at the church-door. The same monarch fully avenged the defeat at Almain by the victory of Ath-Senaid, where over nine thousand Leinster men were slain.
With nods and smiles and courtly ways, were gathered gayly there;
Old counsellors wore looks of youth, and harpers grave and grey
Struck well-tuned strings harmonious to many a pleasing lay.
Congal had summoned to the place his bards of chiefest worth,
And bade them through their inner skill predict the full career
Of him, roydamma, who should reign o'er Ireland many a year.
“Nor how the laurel-leaves of fame may diadem his head;
But rather speak what perils grave may stand within his course,
That prudence may avert their blows, or wisdom break their force.”
“From humble source the danger comes upon his head to fall.
No foreign foe shall work him ill; disease shall bring no care;
A black cow may his ruin prove—of her let him beware!”
Of all the prophecies run mad, the maddest ever known!
A wolf at bay, I've seen at times the boldest bandog tame;
Black cows the neat-herd may assail—kings deal with nobler game!”
Howe'er absurd the danger seemed, yet prudence he obeyed.
No heifer-calf with hide of black was kept on hill or plain,
But speedily and cruelly by butcher-hands was slain.
When King Congal was laid in earth, Feargal sat on the throne.
Of kings not he, perhaps, the worst, but, neither weak nor strong,
He was, as whim or passion moved, the friend of right or wrong.
Who granted no man justice fair, save as a purchased boon,
Who smote the great with cruel hand and trampled on the small,
And with impartial tyranny denied their rights to all.
Their ruler's reckless ways should vex the hapless land no more;
Aodh Roin should meet the tyrant's fate—the fate that waits him when
The bearers of the burthen sore discover they are men.
To meet the peril of the hour one apt device he had—
And so he sent his messengers when Easter-tide began,
To summon all his vassals stout to meet him at Almain.
Then came each chief attended by his galloglasses strong;
They came to meet the tyrant there, and learn what he might say;
They came, a thousand men-at-arms, in terrible array.
“Ye seek,” he said, “fair gentlemen, for freedom in the land.
Look to the cause of all your woe, and do not look to me;
Look to the tribute Leinster pays as due to our Ard-righ.
Our neighboring kings the plunder share, and smile in pleasure grim;
But worse than that, the maidens fair and youth we yearly send
To Tara's yoke of servitude their necks to meekly bend.
No more a slave who reigns o'er slaves, I'll own that ye are men.
Deny the tribute Tuathal forced, and make our Leinster free,
And never a land had kinder king than ye shall find in me.”
Henceforth the tribute we deny. No burthen on the land.
Home, home, and arm! Be ready all with plunderers to deal;
For tale of slaves, give point of spear; for cattle, edge of steel!”
King Aodh, with vassals at his back, the tribute due denies.
Up, Ulstermen and Connaughtmen, and summon forces forth!
We'll teach the rebels of the east the power of west and north!”
Full twenty thousand men-at-arms in line of battle stand;
And at their head the Red Branch Knights, in all their pride, are seen,
Their golden lion broidered fair upon its field of green.
A gallant sight its rows of spears that glistened in the sun!
And right and left its flankers spread on every fertile spot,
And spoiled the noble in his hall, the peasant in his cot.
They slew the cattle on the hoof, the plough-horse in the stall;
And rang the piteous cries of woe the harrowed country through—
“Ochon! Ochon for Leinster here, mo chreach! Och! puilleludh!”
And, falling back in order, at Almain he made a stand;
And there, both armies fronting, on the battle-field they lay,
Awaiting to join issue at the breaking of the day.
Deployed both armies martially—it was a noble sight;
When suddenly, in cowl and gown, a figure spare and tall
Came wrathfully the lines between, and spake to King Feargal.
To Killin came with hands profane, and spoiled the holy place;
I ask for justice on the knaves—I ask for justice now!”
“Is this a time or place,” he said, “to speak to me of cows?”
“All times, all places justice fit,” the hermit bold replied;
“Audacious shaveling, seek the rear!” Feargal in anger cried.
Beware lest in the battle's din thou meetest that black cow!
Her symbol or herself beware; when either here appears,
Vain is the keen-edged glaive you bear, and vain your soldiers' spears.”
The Red Branch Knights on Leinster bore; Feargal, he led the van,
And clash of swords and crash of spears made music on the field,
When charged a knight from Leinster's host, a black cow on his shield.
Nor stayed his way till face to face he met with King Feargal.
The monarch saw the symbol dire, and drew his bridle-rein;
That pause was death; the stranger's sword smote fiercely to the brain.
What mourning for the many slain, what keens the country through!
Ah! woe for Tuathal's wicked law. A cruel monarch's breath
Wrought on seven thousand gallant men the bitterness of death!
The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | ||