Three Irish Bardic Tales Being Metrical Versions of the Three Tales known as The Three Sorrows of Story-telling. By John Todhunter |
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 | Three Irish Bardic Tales |  |
THE FOURTH DUAN. THE SWANS IN THE BANNA.
Sorrowful is my song,
Of songs most sorrowful,
The song of the doom of the Children of Lir.
Of songs most sorrowful,
The song of the doom of the Children of Lir.
1
Then day by day, the Swans, new winged, in sounding strengthFar-soaring, north and south, twixt Erin and Albain,
Would visit in his isle their brother Manannan,
Grey wizard of the sea; much solace found they there.
2
Wizard to wizard, oft, Time in his cloudy caveHe met; and he could spell some rune of things to come.
And in Fianoula's ear his mild prophetic word
Breathed shell-like thunders dim from coming tides of death.
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3
But ever to the rock the Swans flew back at night,As was their doom. And well the happy coasts they knew,
Barred from their landing; where in sunny bays full oft
They wept in the murmuring wind, sad for its inland voice.
4
And once when they had sailed from the unresting seaFar up, by Banna's mouth, to the green heart of the hills,
They saw a moving light gleam snakelike down a vale,
Mocking the sun for splendour, greatening as they gazed.
5
And Conn cried: ‘Lo where shine the Faery Chivalry,Like dragons of the sun! White are their steeds, and there
March Milith's warlike sons, and borne aloft I see
Banners, wherein we live blazoned—the Swans of Lir!’
6
Great joy was there, forsooth, when the Swans met their kin,The stalwart sons of Bōv: one band Oodh Sharpwit led,
Fergus the Wizard, one; and breast-deep in the sea
They plunged to greet the Swans, sought for a hundred years.
7
And at their kiss the Swans trembled and wept for joy,Asking a thousand things, dreading some tale of change:
‘How goes it with Bōv Derg, and with our father Lir?
Rest still those veteran oaks in peace upon their hills?’
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8
Answered the sons of Bōv: ‘Gently the snows of timeSink on the head of Lir, and on the head of Bōv.
Together in Lir's house they keep the Feast of Age,
Merrily as they may, remembering still your song.
9
‘How fare ye in the sea?’ Fianoula sighing said:‘Not to be told our life, for misery, not to be told!
Nor to be told our penury with the toiling tribes of birds!
We in whose train should wait the shining sons of kings!
10
‘For beds of down, long years our breasts rub down the rock,For honey-coloured mead we drink the hissing surge;
Happy this night lie down the well-clad thralls of Lir,
But cold in a cold house the children of their king!’
11
Then sundered from their friends, the Swans to their cold seaSwam back in sorrow. Back rode, sundered from the Swans,
The Faery Chivalry, and told their tale to Lir;
And Lir for love and ruth shed softly tears of age.
12
‘They live?’ he sighed, ‘'tis good!’ and pledged with Bōv, the Swans.‘What can we do?’ they said. ‘We cannot change their doom.’
Then o'er their chess once more their hoary age they bent,
And lone flew back the Swans to their lair in Sruth-na-Moyle.
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13
Thus did the Swans fly back to bide in Sruth-na-MoyleTheir full three hundred years; suffering with gulls and terns
The hardship of the sea, they bode three hundred years.
Then said Fianoula: ‘Swans, your flitting-time is come.’
FLITTING-SONG OF THE SWANS.
1
Ochone for our dreary flitting!Woe to us wandering away
From the coasts and bays that have sheltered
Our sorrows three hundred years!
2
To the world's end in western Erris,Ochone for our dreary flitting!
The warmth of our wings must comfort
The bleak wild wind of the west.
3
Far, far we fly from thy soothing,Manannàn, thou soft sooth-sayer,
Ochone for our dreary flitting,
To the sea without a shore!
4
Out of the world, ay, out of the worldThe curse of a witch outcasts us,
Shelterless, friendless, nameless,
Ochone for our dreary flitting!
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14
Sore was the Swans' lament, and deep sighed Manannàn,Sweet was the lamentation, and the love between them there.
Then the four Swans soared high, and swiftly to the west
Flew from the wizard's eye, and lit in the vast sea.
This is the song of the loneliness of the Swans,
Of songs most mournful,
Sorrowful is my song!
Of songs most mournful,
Sorrowful is my song!
| Three Irish Bardic Tales | |