Three Irish Bardic Tales :: :: University of Virginia Library

There to that isle of peace, in the world's dark seas of woe,
As birds flock to be fed, the heathen of the wilds
Flocked at the Cleric's bell, wondering to hear the Swans;
And barbarous hearts were turned to Christ in that fair spot.

2

Then said the Cleric: ‘Swans, ye are made the birds of Christ,
'Tis meet ye bear His yoke.’ Fair silver chains he wrought,
And chained them, two and two, Fianoula paired with Oodh,
Fiachra with Conn. And ease it seemed that yoke to bear.

3

But now was come the day of their accomplished doom,
When the North should wed the South; for Lairgnen, Colman's son,
The King of Connaught, took the daughter of a King,
Finghin of Munster's child, Deoch, to be his wife.

4

Soon Deoch heard the fame of the magic singing Swans,
And envy gnawed her heart to have them for her own.
No peace could Lairgnen find, putting her off with words;
For fierce was her desire to make their fame her own.

5

‘Art thou a king,’ she said, ‘and dar'st not take these birds
To give me my desire? Empty shall be thy bed,
Empty thy house of me until I have the Swans.
Seek me to-night, and cold the comfort thou shalt find.’

6

Ere night, in sooth, she fled, seeking her father's dun;
But Lairgnen followed her, hot on her fiery track,
Caught her at Kill Dalua, and swearing by the Swans
That she should have her will, brought her, still sullen, home.

7

Then the king sent in haste a kerne to Mocholm Ogue,
Asking him for the Swans; but soon with empty hands
The messenger came back. And Deoch laughed in scorn,
And hot grew Lairgnen's cheek at the taunting of her eyes.

8

In sudden wrath he rose, and caught her by the wrist,
Crying: ‘To horse, woman, and thou shalt have the birds!’
So forth in haste they flung, and all on fire they rode
To Inis Glory, and there drew rein before the church.

9

In the door stood Mocholm Ogue, and Lairgnen, loud in wrath,
Cried to him: ‘Is this true, thou hast refused the Swans?’
But calm the Cleric spoke: ‘These are the birds of God.
Kneel thou before His cross, for pardon and for peace.’

10

But Lairgnen, pushing by, strode to the altar straight,
And seized the shuddering Swans, and by their silver chains,
A pair in either hand, he dragged them from the church,
Crying, with a fierce laugh: ‘Here, woman, take thy birds!’

11

But lo! a wondrous thing: suddenly from the Swans
Slack fell their feathery coats, and there once more they stood,
Children; yet weird with age, weird with nine hundred years
Of woe: four wistful ghosts from childhood's daisied field.

12

Four children there they stood, naked as when in glee
They plunged into the lough. And Mocholm Ogue in haste
Clad them in spotless fair white robes of choristers.
But Lairgnen curst he loud, with Deoch, for their sin.

13

Then, curst by Mocholm Ogue, curst with the curse of God,
Fled Lairgnen from that spot, with Deoch, curst of God:
And in their ears that curse on the white lips of fear
Muttered for ever, till their lives had fearful end.

14

But sad was Mocholm Ogue, for his dear comrades the Swans;
‘And sad,’ Fianoula said, ‘this day for us and thee.
Our parting hour is come, when death must give us peace,
Haste with the water now that makes us one with Christ!

15

‘And Cleric, chaste and dear, friend of our faltering hopes,
Gate of our glory, pray for our sinful passing souls,
And give us, of thy love, God's oil upon our heads,
God's bread between our lips, that we may win thy heaven.’

FIANOULA'S DEATH-SONG.

1

A grave, a grave is my craving,
And the reach of my desire:
A grave for the Children of Lir—
Long suffered, long loved the Children!

2

Together we lived, together
Shall hold us, hoping for heaven,
One sister and three brothers,
The grave of the Children of Lir!

3

Thus, friend, shalt thou lay us,
One sister and three brothers,
At my right hand Fiachra, and Conn by my heart,
And Oodh, Oodh, in my bosom.

4

Great was thy love unto us,
O father of our souls!
And great the love thou wilt bury
In the grave of the Children of Lir!

16

Then were the four baptised, and with the blessed host
Comforted. Houseled then the first time and the last,
And praising God, that night they sang their souls away,
In the sure hope of heaven. But sad was Mocholm Ogue.

17

And in one grave he laid, keeping Fianoula's word,
The four Children of Lir; and masses for their souls
He said, and wrote their names in Ogham on their stone;
And in the church he hung the four white shapes of swans.

Sung is the song of the Children of Lir,
Of songs most wonderful:
Wonderful is my song!