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

Three Irish Bardic Tales

Being Metrical Versions of the Three Tales known as The Three Sorrows of Story-telling. By John Todhunter

Todhunter, John (1839-1916)

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THE DOOM OF THE CHILDREN OF LIR

THE TUNING OF THE HARP.

I tune the harp for my singing,
I sing the sorrow of Lir,
Sorrowful is my song.

1.

Sad were the wizard race, the Tribe of De Danann,
Sad from the victor swords of Milith's warlike sons,
When, from the last lost fight for lordship of the streams
Of Eri, back they fled, from Tailtim, to their hills.

2.

To the hosting of the chiefs, upon the Daghda's dun,

The Daghda was a patriarchal demigod, father of the divine race of De Danann.

Together then they drew their war-sick banners pale,
Together drew their hosts, war-wearied and dismayed,
And said: ‘Let one be Lord, to the healing of us all!’

3.

Five were the chiefs who rose, with challenge of their deeds
Claiming in lofty words the Over-Kingship there:
Bōv Derg, the Daghda's son; Ilbrac of Assaroe;
And Lir of the White Field in the plain of Eman Macha.

4.

And after them stood up Midhir the Proud, who reigned
Upon the hills of Bri, of Bri the loved of Liath,
Bri of the broken heart; and last was Angus Ogue;
All these had many voices, but for Bōv Derg were most.

5.

Then all took sun and moon for their sureties, to obey him,
Bōv Derg, the holy King; save Lir and all his clan.
For Lir withdrew in ire, frowning, and spake no word,
And after him his clan went frowning from the tryst.

6.

And marching from the dun, his war-men at his back,
A thundercloud of wrath, frighting the peaceful day,
He passed to his own place, and sat him down in grief
And anger, many days, brooding upon his wrong.

7.

But those about Bōv Derg were wroth at Lir, and said:
‘Give us the word, Bōv Derg, and Lir shall be an heap
Of bleaching bones, cast out and suddenly forgot,
And memory name no more his clan without a cairn.’

8.

‘Nay,’ said Bōv Derg: ‘Not so, Lir is a mighty name,
Greater in war than I, dear as my head to me.
Leave Lir in peace to hold the lordship of his land,
The dragon of our coasts, to daunt Fomorian ships.’

The Fomorians were sea-rovers, who for centuries made raids upon the Irish coasts.

9.

So Lir sat down, unharried, on his hill of the White Field
In anger many days. Then there went forth a cry
Of wail through all the north, and down the Shannon stream,
A wail in the west, a wail in the south: ‘The wife of Lir is dead,
And Lir like winter's frost that melts away in tears!’

10.

And Bōv Derg heard that cry, and said: ‘This woe of Lir
Shall heal our breach;’ and sent rich gifts to him, and said:
‘Behold I have three maidens, fostered in my house,
Of one fair mother borne, fresh as young hawthorn buds,
Sweeter than summer's breath: choose out the fairest now
Oova, or Oifa next, or youngest of them all,
Eva. Choose thou; and peace be knit betwixt us twain.’

11.

Good seemed that word to Lir, and he hastened from his hill,
His chariots were three score, their wheels outshone the sun,
His horsemen swift as hawks, splendid as dragonflies
In belted mail. He rode, and came beside Lough Derg,
There met Bōv Derg, and there abode that day in peace.

12.

That night glad was Bōv Derg, and made, for love of Lir,
A mighty feast, and there, at the High-Queen's right hand,
Lir saw the maidens three, Oova, and Oifa next,
And, youngest of them all, Eva. ‘Choose,’ said Bōv Derg:
Lir looked, and sang this lay:

CHOOSING SONG OF LIR.

1

Three things there be most beautiful
In the softness of their splendour:
The sun in the west, the moon on the water,
And the dawn-star's tremulous light.

2

Three are the maids before me,
All wonderful in beauty,
Oova, Oifa, Eva,
No man could choose between them.

3

And now I dare not wrong thee,
Oova, to pass thee over,
First-born shall be first-wed:
Be thou my heart's consoling!

13.

Thereat Bōv Derg praised Lir, that righteous was his choice.
And mighty was the ale-feast at the wedding of that bride;
For wed they were that night, and morn beheld the splendour
Of the bringing home of Oova, the wife of war-like Lir.

14.

And first a girl and boy she bore at one fair birth,
The sweet-voiced Fianoula, and Oodh with golden hair;
And next two sons she bore, twins of one fatal hour,
Fiachra and Conn; and died that hour she heard them cry.

15.

Thus Oova, bearing men, in honoured motherhood
Went piteously to death; and by the Shannon's stream
A wail went north and south: ‘The wife of Lir is dead!
And motherless his babes, cold in the bed of Lir!’

16.

And Bōv Derg heard that wail, and said: ‘Ochone for Lir!
Ochone for his young babes, cold is their bed this day!
Thee must he wed, Oifa—mother thy sister's babes.’
And cold went Oifa then to the cold house of Lir.

Sorrowful is my song,
The song of the sorrow of Lir,
The harp is tuned for my singing.

THE FIRST DUAN. THE DOOM OF THE CHILDREN OF LIR.

Sorrowful is my song,
Of songs most sorrowful,
The song of the doom of the Children of Lir.

1

So Oifa dwelt with Lir, as mother of his children,
One daughter and three sons, wide was their beauty's fame;
And Bōv Derg loved them well, and when the daisy's gleam
Silvered the fields of spring, they dwelt with him in joy.

2

And there Fianoula sang, shaming the blackbird's flute,
And Oodh of the golden hair cast far his boyish spear,
And, leaping like a roe, flew Fiachra o'er the streams,
And Conn, the blue-eyed, roving with his sling, was busy too.

3

Great was the love of Lir for these, past love of fathers;
His heart went where they went, and never from their feet,
His feet for long were far, and still his face would turn
After them, east or west, as the daisy's after day.

4

And when the season fell for their coming home from Bōv,
Glad grew the heart of Lir, as earth's at kiss of spring.
By night he kept them near, and oft ere dawn was grey
Hungry with love he rose, to lie down among his children.

5

But Oifa in her heart said: ‘I am but a nurse
For these my sister's brood: I have no child: and here
Despised I dwell.’ And sick she lay in bitter teen,
Dumb on her bed, a year, nursing her heart's cold snake.

6

Then pale she rose, and pale she drest in jewelled fire
Her beauty's baleful star, and said: ‘Lo, daisied spring
Kindles her emerald torch among the groves of Lir.
Bōv Derg beholds, and dreams of rosy faces nigh.’

7

She flashed her charms on Lir, and Lir bade yoke the steeds,
And kissed his mounting sons, who laughed to go with her;
But long Fianoula clung round her grey father's neck,
Weeping to say farewell; boding some evil doom.

8

So Oifa took the four, and fiercely driving came
Upon a place of Druids, and said: ‘Come, kill me now
This plague with some swift charm!’ ‘Get hence!’ the Druids cried,
‘Thou art the plague, Oifa; fear thou the Druids' curse.’

9

And on she rode in wrath, and reined beside a wood
Her foaming steeds, and took the children in her hands,
Muttering, to a deep glade; Fianoula weeping went,
For horror of the way, and boding of her doom.

10

Then Oifa drew her skeene, and would have slain them there;
But Conn looked wondering up: ‘Mother, what means that knife?’
‘Wolves!’ she cried out: ‘Wolves! wolves!’ He whirled his tiny sling
And said: ‘Lo! we are here; no wolf shall do thee harm.’

11

And sick with a strange dread, fearing to see their blood,
She cast her skeene away, and led them wondering back,
Muttering: ‘The Druids' curse! I fear the Druids' curse.
I'll crave no charm of theirs, my magic serves as well.’

12

So they rode on, and came in the hot afternoon
To Derryvarragh Lough; she stared upon its water,
And said: ‘Go in and bathe!’ And naked, in delight,
The children shouting ran, and plunged in the cool mere.

13

Then rose the witch, and muttering paced she upon the shore
A Druid's maze, and raised her witch-wand in her hand,
And smote the children there, and they were seen no more,
But on the lake four Swans beheld their plumes, amazed.

THE WITCH-SONG OF OIFA.

Out, evil brood of Lir,
O'er the waters of your wailing;
Strange in his ear shall wail your tale
As the dumb cry of a bird.

FIANOULA'S ANSWER.

Witch-mother, thou bale of Lir,
On the waters of our wailing
Thou hast set us without a boat afloat.
In the nakedness of birds!

14

Then the four Swans swam near, and huddled by the shore
Wept at the feet of Oifa; Fianoula weeping said:
‘O causeless hate that smites us, orphans in thy house,
Whose love smiled in thy face, things easy to be loved!

15

‘Evil thy deed has been, evil shall be thy fate;
For those whose eyes look now for us, and long must look,
Have magic strong as thine. They will avenge the Swans;
Therefore assign some end of the ruin thou hast wrought.’

16

Fear in the witch's heart was gendering with her hate,
Seeing her evil thought grown to an evil deed,
Yet stern she cried: ‘The worse for asking be ye all!’
And pale with hate she sang the spell-song of their doom:

OIFA'S SONG OF DOOM.

1

The doom of the Children of Lir,
Thus Oifa dooms them,
Go pine in the feathers of swans
Till the North shall wed the South.

2

Three hundred years shall ye float
On the stillness of Derryvarragh:

A lake in Westmeath; Sruth-na-Moyle, the tide-way between Ireland and Scotland; Erris Domnann, possibly Erris Head, in Mayo; Inis Glory, an island on the coast of Kerry.

On the tossing of Sruth-na-Moyle,
Unsheltered, three hundred years.

3

Three hundred years shall ye keene
With the curlews of Erris Domnann;
Till the bell rings in Inis Glory
I curse you: nine hundred years!

17

The four Swans heard their doom, and huddled by the shore
Wept at the feet of Oifa. Fianoula weeping said:
‘This is a mighty curse, O mother of our tears!
Unmothered, comfortless, cold through the age-long night!’

FIANOULA'S PRATER.

A boon, a boon, O mother,
For the sorrowful Children of Lir!
Sad is the voice of children
In the terrors of the night.

18

Fear in the witch's heart was gendering with her hate,
Seeing her evil thought grown to an evil deed;
And on her tongue was laid a spell more strong than hers,
In fear, not ruth, she spake this lightening of their doom:

OIFA'S ANSWER.

1

A boon, a boon I yield you,
Ye sorrowful Children of Lir!
Man's reason shall breed within you
Sweet words in the tongue of men.

2

Sweet, sweet be your voices,
Ye mournful Swans of Lir!
The sad, sweet moan of your music
Shall comfort the sick with sleep.

3

Sweet, sweet be your voices,
Ye sorrowful Swans of Lir!
Your song from the seas of Eri
Shall comfort the sorrows of men.

4

Sweet, sweet be your voices,
Ye magical Swans of Lir!
A nation's desolation
Shall witch the world in your song.

19

Then from the Swans went Oifa, and hasting from the shore
Fled from her triumph, pale, hate glutted; and the Swans,
Banished from hopes of men, and comfort of their kind
Swam in a knot forlorn into the clouds of doom.

This was the doom of the Children of Lir
Of dooms most doleful,
Sorrowful is my song.

THE SECOND DUAN. THE SWANS ON DERRYVARRAGH.

Sorrowful is my song
Of songs most sorrowful,
The song of the doom of the Children of Lir.

1

So from the Swans went Oifa, and cold slept in her heart
Revenge's glutted snake; and to Bōv Derg she came.
Bōv Derg her coming marked, and starting from his place
Asked her: ‘Where are the children?’ She softly smiling, said:

2

‘Strange madness works in Lir: his brow grew black in wrath
When hither I would come. He loves not thee nor me.
No more his flock may rove out of his jealous eye,
Come to thee never more. I am weary, and would rest.’

3

Thereat amazed, Bōv Derg laid ambush in his mind,
Marking the witch's eye that glittered like a snake's
With inward fire, and felt a lurking evil there;
And sent to Lir, seeking the children in their home.

4

Lir, when he heard, his wrath flaming from sudden dread,
Took horse for the hill of Bōv, with visions by the way
Of Oifa's murderous mind; and schemed some vast revenge,
Rushing in flames of wrath by Derryvarragh Lough.

5

The Swans beheld afar, and with a human wail
Of song over the water, called on the name of Lir.
Pierced with their wistful sad melodious moan, sat Lir
Fumbling his rein, aghast, as wailing they drew nigh.

THE SONG OF THE SWANS.

Tarry, Lir, and hear
The song of the Swans!
Pity thy children, Lir,
The Swans forlorn, thy children!

6

Hearing that cry, ran Lir all trembling to the shore,
And bent in ruth to kiss the piteous feathery things
That from the water wailed, and on the weeping Swans
Full fast, in loving ruth, hot fell the tears of Lir!

7

And well each child he knew, sewn in its feathery shroud.
And stroked with passionate hand Oodh's o'er-snowed golden head,
And stroked Fianoula's neck, writhing to meet his touch,
And stroked his Fiachra's wings, and the downy crest of Conn.

8

Then burst in sobs his voice: ‘Oh, beggared in one day!
Whence are these swans for children? Whence falls this feathery blight:
This wrong unbearable, that vengeance cannot cure?
Oifa, is this thy deed?’ Fianoula answered low:

SONG OF FIANOULA.

1

Hot are thy tears, O Lir,
On the feathers of the Swans;
But cold shall rain the rains
Long ages upon thy children.

2

Thou gavest us, O Lir,
A cruel witch for our mother!
Poor father! for thee I weep
She has given thee Swans for children.

3

Three hundred years must we tread
Lake-water in Derryvarragh:
On the saltness of Sruth-na-Moyle
Must welter, three hundred years.

4

Three hundred years must we cleave
The billows of Erris Domnann:
Till the bell rings in Inis Glory
She cursed us—nine hundred years!

9

Great was the lamentation and the love between them there;
Loud was the Swans' lament, and loud the grief of Lir;
And with his children four he there lay down that night,
With the Swans he made his bed by the shores of Derryvarragh.

10

But when the dawn grew bright he hastened on his way
To the house of the High-King. Oifa before Bōv Derg
Was called, and to her face Lir told his piteous tale.
Wearily still she smiled: ‘I have done it—let me die!’

11

Stern rose Bōv Derg in wrath: ‘I lay my druid spell
On thy confessing tongue, to answer what vile shape
Is most abhorred by thee?’ She writhed, compelled with pain,
Crying with a ghastly shriek: ‘A demon of the air!’

12

‘Take then that shape,’ he said, and smote her with his wand;
And her blue eyes grew white as dazzling leprosy,
Her hideous body seemed the snake-fiend of her heart
Burst forth on dragon wings. And Bōv Derg spoke her doom:

THE DOOM OF OIFA.

1

From the tribes of men fly Oifa,
Pale outlaw of the air,
Till the wind shall cease to wail
For Eri and her woes!

2

Go howl on the blast, howl Oifa
O'er the land where the Banshee cries:
In the shade of thy dragon wings
Fall horror of brooding fate.

3

Abhorred of men, howl Oifa
O'er the mountains of Inisfail:
The Swans of Lir shall have comfort
Long ere thy end of woes.

13

So howling on the blast fled from the face of men
Oifa, for evermore. But Bōv Derg went with Lir
Back to the gentle Swans, for solace of their song;
And with them by the lake they dwelt three hundred years.

14

And there dwelt peace: there came, by septs, the De Danann,
There Milith's warlike sons sat down with them in peace;
For all men loved the Swans, for comfort of their song.
And peace with all her arts reigned there three hundred years.

15

Then said Fianoula: ‘Ah, sweet brothers, know ye not
Our age is ended here? To-night our flight must be.’
Then sorrow for their fate fell on the sons of Lir,
‘We were still men,’ they said, ‘here dwelling with our kin.’

FLITTING-SONG OF THE SWANS.

1

Our beautiful feathers
Must we drench in salt surges,
No night brine-unbittered
For the Children of Lir!

2

Farewell, Derryvarragh,
Farewell, friendly faces,
To the gulls and the curlews
Fly the Children of Lir.

16

Loud was the Swans' lament, and loud the grief of Lir,
And long the lamentation and the love between them there.
Then the four Swans soared high, and swiftly to the north
Flew from the eyes of Lir, and lit on Sruth-na-Moyle.

This is the song of the flitting of the Swans,
Of songs most mournful,
Sorrowful is my song!

THE THIRD DUAN. THE SWANS ON SRUTH-NA-MOYLE.

Sorrowful is my song,
Of songs most sorrowful,
The song of the doom of the Children of Lir.

1

Now sang the shrill sea-wind through the feathers of the Swans,
And cold round their white breasts the brine of Sruth-na-Moyle
Boiled in the bitter surge; and bitter was their lot,
Tossing unsheltered on the tides of Sruth-na-Moyle.

2

And once, ere sunset, fell a darkness on the deep,
And sharp Fianoula cried: ‘Ochone for us this night!
Bad is our preparation! the storm is in our wings
To drive us four apart on seas unknown to-night.

3

‘Forlorn this night shall be our bed in the black waters,
Forlorn our lonely sailing on seas without a star;
Sharing in love no more the comfort of our wings,
Sad must we walk to-night the waves of Sruth-na-Moyle!

4

‘Tell me then, where shall be the trysting of the Swans,
If life be left in us to see the storm go down?’
‘Be it the Rock of the Seals, Carrig-na-Rōn,’ they cried,
‘Carrig-na-Rōn's the word! May we all see it soon!’

5

Ere midnight swooped the storm, and scowling o'er the deep
They saw the eyes of Oifa, and heard her in the blast
Howling, as they were driven apart on the wild sea.
None knew his brother's path all night, nor saw his own.

6

For all night long the storm dashed them about the deep
In sleet and freezing spray, blind; and the lightning's glare
Showed them but heaving mountains, black on the gleaming sea;
So all night long they fought for life with the rude waves.

7

With night fled the fierce wind. They knew the east, and steered
O'er seas of separation, while rosily in the dawn
Gleamed their subsiding crests. But the four were far apart,
And lonely came Fianoula first to the Rock of Seals.

8

To the rock she fluttered; there, with wings too weak for flight,
Stared on the waste of waters thundering about her feet;
And many a foamy crest, white on the lowering grey,
Her anxious eyes believed a swan—that never came.

FIANOULA'S LAMENTATION ON THE ROCK.

1

Bad is life in my state,
My wings droop at my sides,
The furious blast hath shattered
The heart in my breast for Oodh.

2

Three hundred years as a swan
On the waters of Derryvarragh
I was shut from my human shape;
But worse is one night like this

3

Belov'd the three. oh, belov'd the three
Who nestled beneath my wings!
Till the dead come to meet the living
I shall meet them never more.

4

No sign of Oodh nor Fiachra
Of Conn the comely no news!
Have pity for me who live, ye dead,
In misery bad is life!

9

There sat she till night fell, and through that night forlorn,
Till the rising of the day, blind with her dazzling watch.
At last there came a swan—young Conn, with drooping head
And feathers drenched in brine. Then joy sang in her heart.

10

And Conn she comforted beneath her wings, that glowed
With the new glow of her heart; and then came Fiachra, cold,
Half dead, a drifting waif; and word he could not speak,
For hardship of the sea. Him too she cheered with life.

11

The third long night the three together on the rock
Nestled, and sighed for Oodh. And, with the rising sun,
Came Oodh, his glorious head high-held, his feathers preened,
And flew to them, and brought the sun upon his wings.

12

Warm on the Swans the sun shone, and a rush of joy
Startled the tide of life in sad Fianoula's breast;
And heartily the three welcomed their missing one,
Heartily hailed they all their brother from the deep.

13

And Oodh Fianoula warmed with the feathers of her breast;
And over Fiachra spread her right wing; and her left,
The wing of her heart, o'er Conn. ‘Bitter these days,’ she said,
‘But worse will come to pinch the wandering Swans of Lir.’

14

There dwelt they, with the seals, the human-hearted seals,
That loved the Swans, and far followed with sad soft eyes,
Doglike, in sleek brown troops, their singing, o'er the sea;
So for their music yearned the nations of the seals.

15

And there they sorely learned the hardship of the sea,
The misery of the birds, their penury and toil.
Summer passed, winter came, and nipt them with a night
The like of which, for cold, they had never felt before.

16

That January night upon the rock they lay,
One heap of feathery snow, their inmost feathers cold
As fleeces filled with frost. One huddling heap they lay
Cold in the windy tent of their sun-loving wings.

17

Hoarse o'er the hissing waves howled Oifa in the blast,
And dreadful through the night the chill glare of her eyes
Gleamed in the dazzling snow; and through the Swans the surf
Shot arrows, burning cold, barbed by the stinging frost.

18

Thus they endured that night, close-huddled to keep warm
Life's embers in them. There late morning found them, all
Fast frozen to their bed. They roused their ebbing powers,
And grimly, with wild pain, at length tore themselves free.

19

But on the frozen rock their bed was flaked with blood,
Bent quills, and bloody down, and broken plumes; for there
They left the skin of their breasts, they left the skin of their feet,
And half the soaring strength of their sun-loving wings.

FIANOULA'S LAMENTATION IN THE COLD.

1

Ochone for the Swans left bare
Of the warm fleece of their feathers!
Ochone for the feet that bleed
On the rough teeth of the rocks!

2

False, false was our mother,
When she drove us with Druid's craft
Adrift on the roaring waters,
In the outlawry of birds.

3

For happy home she gave us
The fleeting surge of the sea,
For share of the lordly ale-feast
The loathing of bitter brine.

4

One daughter, and three sons,
Behold us, Lir, on the rocks,
Featherless, comfortless, cold,
We print our steps in blood.

20

Then, with their bleeding wounds, they plunged in Sruth-na-Moyle,
For painful was their path on the limpet-studded rocks.
There on the wandering tides they made their patient bed,
Until their wounds were whole, their wings bold on the blast.

This is the song of the hardship of the Swans,
Of songs most mournful,
Sorrowful is my song.

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.

1

Then day by day, the Swans, new winged, in sounding strength
Far-soaring, north and south, twixt Erin and Albain,

Twixt Erin and Albain. Ireland and Scotland. Erin and Albain are genitive cases of Eri and Alba, frequently used as nominatives, as I have sometimes done, for metrical reasons.

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 cave
He 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.

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 sea
Far 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?’

8

Answered the sons of Bōv: ‘Gently the snows of time
Sink 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 sea
Swam 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.

13

Thus did the Swans fly back to bide in Sruth-na-Moyle
Their 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 world
The curse of a witch outcasts us,
Shelterless, friendless, nameless,
Ochone for our dreary flitting!

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!

THE FIFTH DUAN. THE SWANS IN ERRIS DOMNANN.

Sorrowful is my song,
Of songs most sorrowful
The song of the doom of the Children of Lir!

1

By Erris Domnann's cliffs they dwelt. There first they knew
The ocean without shore; and in their ears all night
Boomed on with solemn sound the thunder of its waves.
And answering to that sound, their minds were changed for awe.

2

There, day on boundless day, wonders were in their eye,
Wonders of the great deep. Blue rolled the unresting waves
And white the boiling surge smote the unflinching rocks.
And, answering to that sight, their minds grew great in awe.

3

But want they felt, and cold; and pity wrung their breast
For the sea-faring tribes. And many a dreadful storm
Smote them, the wrath whereof they had never felt before,
Seeking in land-locked bays what shelter they might win.

4

But once, when glowing noon slept on the murmuring waves
And the brown basking rocks, an odorous inland breeze
Wafted them o'er the sea faint pulsings of a harp,
Lamenting tones where lived memories of their own dead songs.

5

Then wondering rose the Swans, and sought on sounding wing
That echo of their woes. And there, upon the rocks,
They found a harper, grey, with wistful eyes. His harp
Fell as he cried: ‘At last! Are these the Swans of Lir?’

6

They questioned of his name. ‘Ævric,’ he said, ‘grown grey
Seeking the Swans. Your tale saddened my dreaming youth,
Waifs of your song, like pools by some forgotten stream
Left lonely on the hills, haunt still this land of sighs.

7

‘I drank, and thirsted still, and am become a cloud
Wandering the world to seek the fountains of the dew.
Oh, fill my thirsting soul with music! Swans I have loved,
Slay me not with your sight, unsolaced by your song!’

8

Wan was his face, o'erflowed by the rivers of his eyes,
And pale the pleading hands stretched to them o'er the sea.
Then the four Swans swam near, and Ævric in the brine
Plunged in, breast-deep, to touch the feathers of the four.

9

Sweet was their salutation; and soon between them there
Kindled a mighty love, not soon to cease; for there
Ævric abode, and long shared with the Swans his food,
And from his hand once more they knew the taste of bread.

10

Sweet were the songs they taught him, and made him with their lore
First bard of all his time. Then, feeling death draw near,
He said: ‘My time is come: hence must I, and sing your songs
In youthful ears, to keep the heart of Eri green.’

11

Sorrowing he went; through tears their eyes looked after him:
Desolate stood his hut, a spectre on the rocks,
Cold as the tomb wherein their happy days lay dead;
And yet they loved the spot where they had lost a friend.

12

But Ævric made the heart of Eri bud with song,
Dying when he had made the story of the Swans;
While for a hundred years the Swans in the great sea
By Erris Domnann bode, in hardships ever new.

13

Then came a winter night, the like of which for frost
They had never felt before. Breathless above the sea
The frozen air stood still: its billows hushed in awe,
Freezing without a sound, still stood the mighty deep.

14

There, beautiful in heaven, throned in her splendour, Night,
An awful presence, dwelt. Awfully on the sea
The moon looked silent down. Cold through the icy air
Awfully flamed the stars, alive with deadly light.

15

Silent, remorseless, swift, blurring the torpid surge,
The flag of ice advanced; dense round the moving Swans
The thin sea-water grew; meshed in its creeping net
They moved no more. ‘Death spurs his fated hour,’ said Conn.

16

‘Nay, see,’ Fianoula said, ‘still is the frozen air—
That stillness guards our life. Howled Oifa on the blast,
The wind's keen fangs to-night had nipt our hearts indeed.
But stark she crouches, cowed by heaven's frosty eyes.’

FIANOULA'S SONG IN THE FROZEN SEA.

1

Oh! who shall comfort the Swans?
The sea, the sea hath betrayed us!
The frost's white wand on thy waters,
We perish by thee, O Sea!

2

For the freedom of the waves
Brisk, buoyant under our bodies,
Pent here in thy crystal prison,
We pine to be free, O Sea!

3

Great art Thou, God of heaven!
In the trance of the wind and the waters
Thy love walks o'er the sea,
This night is Thy shield reveal'd.

4

Dread Framer of earth and heaven,
Chastise the strong till they pity,
Give ease to Thy suffering tribes,
Our souls be set free, by Thee!

17

‘Brothers,’ she cried, ‘believe in the great God of heaven!’
‘We do believe,’ they said; and straightway on their hearts
Fell peace; and fear was quelled by awe; and a new song
Grew on their golden tongues, hymning the God of heaven:

THE SWANS' SONG OF PRAISE.

FIANOULA.
Great is the God of heaven!

THE THREE BROTHERS.
And wonderful His works!

FIANOULA.
Great is the God of heaven!

THE THREE BROTHERS.
And greatly to be praised!

FIANOULA AND OODH.
In the glorious lights of heaven
His eyes behold our weakness.

FIACHRA AND CONN.
He hath paven the sea with crystal
For the footsteps of His love.

THE FOUR SWANS.
O God, most mighty,
We praise thee out of the waters!
O King of Consolation,
Thy wings are over all!

18

Even as they sang, the north, far o'er the crystal sea
Budded with phantom fire. Pale flames, and rays of gloom,
Streamed to the zenith flickering; and dying, quickening still,
Made, as the low moon dipt, all heaven one throbbing rose.

19

Fianoula saw, and cried: ‘Terrible saints advance
To the purging of the earth: to the conquering of the nations
Terrible kings advance! Ghostlike our banners flee
To the wan fairy fields. Oh! where is Lir to-night?’

20

With morning came the sun and the warm wind of the west,
And split the groaning ice. Free swam the Swans once more,
Unharmed, on the brisk tide, and on their clanging wings
Soared o'er the churning ice, to their own sheltering bay.

21

So from that day they dwelt, free in their ocean home,
Knowing both heat and cold; but in hardship or in ease
Over them like a tent was spread the peace of God.
And there they dwelt in peace for still one hundred years.

22

Then said Fianoula: ‘Come, our cruel mother's curse
Withers upon the waters and on the fields of air,
And we are free to fly home to the halls of Lir.
How fares it with our father—does he still see the sun?’

23

So the four Swans soared high, and swiftly to the east,
Under the eyes of dawn, flew home to the halls of Lir,
And found them but a heap, and desolation there
Dwelt, and a tongueless grief, as of a harp unstrung.

24

Sadly his children four by Lir's forgotten hearth
In silence sat them down; and memories in dim troop,
Orphans of days long dead, stole from their weedy lair
To gaze with wistful eyes upon the orphans four.

THE SWANS' LAMENT FOR THE DESOLATION OF LIR.

1

A lost dream to us now is our home
Ullagone! Ochone-a-rie!
Gall to our heart! Oh, gall to our heart!
Ullagone! Ochone-a-rie!

2

A hearthless home, without fire, without joy,
Without a harp, without a hound!
No talk, no laughter, no sound of song,
Ullagone for the halls of Lir!

3

Where now are the prosperous kings?
Where are the women? Where is the love?
The kiss of welcome warm on our cheeks?
The loving tongue of hounds on our hands?

4

Oh! the greatness of our mishap!
Oh! the length of our evil day!
Bitter to toss between sea and sea,
But worse the taste of a loveless home.

5

Children we left it, swans we return.
To a strange place, strangers. None lives to say:
‘These are the Children of Lir.’ A dream,
In a dream forgotten are we this night!

6

Is this the place of music we knew,
Where howls the wolf through the halls of Lir?
Where mirth in the drinking-horn was born,
Chill falls the rain on the hearth of Lir.

7

Ullagone! Ochone-a-rie!
Gall to our hearts is that sight to-night
Ullagone! Ochone-a-rie!
A lost dream to us now is our home!

25

So sang they. ‘Let us go,’ Fianoula said, ‘for here
We have no more a home; back to the breezy west
Our flight must be. Now Lir, wandering in Fairyland,
Beholds a phantom sun.’ So spake she, and back they flew.

This is the song of the desolation of Lir,
Of songs most mournful,
Sorrowful is my song!

THE SIXTH DUAN. THE COMING OF THE FAITH.

A changing song is my song,
Of songs most wondrous,
The song of the doom of the Children of Lir.

1

So did the Swans fly back from the ruined halls of Lir
To the wild western sea, and, veering southward, came
To Inis Glory of Brendan; and there they made their home,
Waiting in patient peace the coming of the Faith.

2

And all the tribes of birds were gathered to them there,
And with sweet fairy singing there in the Lake of Birds
They taught the airy tribes, and comforted their woes;
Till, as the seals, they loved the singing of the Swans.

3

Far was their flight by day; along the wild west coast
They roamed to feed, as far as Achill, and at night
Flew back to Inis Glory; and wheresoe'er they moved
Thick waved the following wings of loving flocks of birds.

4

And there they dwelt in peace till the coming of the Faith,
Till holy Patrick's feet blest Erin's faithless fields;
And then to Inis Glory a priest came, sent of God,
He dreamed not for what end, but came there sent of God.

5

That priest was Mocholm Ogue; and sorrowful of heart
He came to Inis Glory, and there six days he toiled,
No man to help, and built, serving the Lord, a church;
And resting the seventh day, he hallowed it to Christ.

6

Marvellous was his work; for great strength in his hands
God put; and there by night, no shelter for his head,
But sheltering as he might the Church's holy things,
He laid him down to sleep, wet with the rain and the dew.

7

And like the birds he lived, no better than the birds.
Toiling, yet keeping still matins, and nones, and primes.
Then by God's finished house he built himself a hut,
Where like the birds he lived, no better than the birds.

8

Yet heavy was his mood; questioning God he thought:
‘Why am I wasted, thus; from the world's throbbing heart
Aloof, in peaceless peace, God's battles at my back?
Shall I feed the fish with praise, birds with the bread of God?’

9

But steadfast in his deeds, not scanting prayer nor praise,
He toiled; and the seventh day, in blessed bread and wine,
Christ came to win the West. That grace the sacring bell
To wondering land and sea proclaimed with silver sound.

10

The sad Swans heard, far, faint, from some dim alien world,
The bell's mysterious tone; and on the brothers three
Strange terror fell, and wild they dashed through the clear waves,
Till, at Fianoula's call, they waited on her word.

11

‘What ails you thus to fly?’ she said. ‘What have ye heard?’
And they: ‘We know not what—a faint and fearful voice
Thrills in the shuddering air!’ ‘That is God's bell,’ said she,
‘The bell that brings us ease. Blest be the name of God!’

FIANOULA'S SONG OF DELIVERANCE.

1

Hark to the Cleric's bell,
Ye sorrowful Swans of Lir!
Give thanks to God for its voice
Calling your souls to rest.

2

Lift up your hearts in gladness,
Ye sorrowful Swans of Lir!
On the wings of the wind your wings
Lift up to the gates of heaven!

3

Hark to the Cleric's bell,
Ye comely Children of Lir!
Redeemed from the scorn of tempests,
And the fury of the rocks.

4

Redeemed from the terror of life,
And icy deserts of death,
Redeemed from earth's enchantment,
Turn to the Cleric's bell!

12

Then on their sounding wings the Swans their latest flight
Took from the unresting sea, to find the rest of God;
And on the Lake of Birds they lit, and through the night
Praised with sweet fairy music the great God of heaven.

13

Afar heard Mocholm Ogue the singing of the Swans,
And trembled for strange awe, and wondering prayed that God
Would show him what wild things those were that praised His name.
And it was shown him straight: ‘These are the Swans of Lir.’

14

Then glad was Mocholm Ogue, and penitential tears
Wept before God, and cried: ‘A sinful man, O Lord!
Not worthy of this grace, am I, that unto me
Thou hast sent these prisoned souls to loose from their long woe.’

15

With dawn he rose, and ran, and standing by the lake,
Called through the mists of morn: ‘Are ye the Swans of Lir?’
The Swans heard him, and came, and wept beside the shore:
‘Waiting release we live, the charmed Children of Lir.’

16

‘Blessed be God!’ said he. ‘For this God sent me hither,
To save you out of sin. Put all your trust in God.’
He kissed the weeping Swans, and took them to his place,
And there they dwelt with him, four weary things at rest.

17

Hearing the mass they dwelt, and there with Mocholm Ogue
Kept the canonical hours. And great content and joy
The Cleric had of them, his heart soared at their song;
And trouble dashed no more the spirit of the Swans.

This is the song of the coming of the Faith,
Of songs most wondrous,
A changed song is my song.

THE SEVENTH DUAN. THE SWANS' DELIVERANCE.

Wonderful is my song,
Of songs most wonderful,
The song of the peace of the Children of Lir.

1

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!