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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THE TUNING OF THE HARP. |
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 | Three Irish Bardic Tales |  |
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THE TUNING OF THE HARP.
I tune the harp for my singing,
I sing the sorrow of Lir,
Sorrowful is my song.
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,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 deedsClaiming 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.
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4.
And after them stood up Midhir the Proud, who reignedUpon 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.’
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9.
So Lir sat down, unharried, on his hill of the White FieldIn 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 LirShall 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:
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CHOOSING SONG OF LIR.
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Three things there be most beautifulIn the softness of their splendour:
The sun in the west, the moon on the water,
And the dawn-star's tremulous light.
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Three are the maids before me,All wonderful in beauty,
Oova, Oifa, Eva,
No man could choose between them.
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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 motherhoodWent 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!’
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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 song of the sorrow of Lir,
The harp is tuned for my singing.
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