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

A feast was in the house of Felimy Mac Dal,
Chief Bard of Conchobar; and, bidden of the Bard,
There feasted with his chiefs, flower of the great Red-Branch,
Conchobar the High-King, of Rury's blood, who reigned
O'er Ulster and the North, in Eman of the Kings.

Eman Macha, the seat of the High-Kings of Ulster, was near Armagh (Ard-Macha). The Irish names of the Provinces are Ulla (Ulster); Laigen (Leinster); Mumha (Munster); Connachta, formerly Olnemachta (Connaught).

There in the Bard's high house loud was the revelry,
Keen was the cry of harps, glorious the war of song,
When singers old in fame with taunt and challenge met,
And golden voice with voice, contending for men's praise,
Chanted, in sounding words that rang like brazen strokes,
Great Champions' deeds and deaths, Bard answering to Bard.

No dearth was found that night, in Eman of the Kings,
Of Bards, or Shanachies, or Druids; for the court
Of Conchobar was famed for Bards and bardic lore;
And ancient learning none loved better, of all Kings
That e'er in Ireland wore the catb-barr of a King.

The insignia of an Irish King included the cath-barr (helmet) of gold; the Ard-roth, or wheel-brooch; and the ‘Belt of Royalty.’

From the King's board each day fed Felimy Mac Dal,
Who bare a golden Branch of Music

A peal of small bells, of gold, silver, or bronze, according to his professional rank, and arranged upon a stem or branch, was the distinguishing mark of a Bard. Their sound ‘lulled anger to sleep.’

in his hand,
As royal Bard, and ruled o'er famous Bards a score,
Who bare Branches of silver; and four-score Bards and ten,
Well-skilled in song, who bare Branches of bronze. Each one
Could with his Bell-branch lull the angry heart asleep.

So Kings and Chiefs and Bards, in Eman of the Kings,
Feasted with Felimy; and rank and order due
Were kept between them all, each Bard, or Chief, or King
Being marshalled to his place by stewards of the feast.
But Conchobar alone came armed into the hall.

And there the amber mead, crowning the golden cup,
Welcomed each noble guest. There Conall Carnach sat,
Whose eyes, renowned in song, the blue eye and the brown,
Abashed his foes; but now beamed kindly as he pledged
The man of glorious heart who laughed a realm away,
Fergus Mac Roy; who now pledged him again, and laughed,
With frank heart-easing roar, the laugh that all men loved.

So Fergus laughed, and looked a mighty man of men;
Ruddy his face, and red the great beard on his breast,
Fergus, whose heart contained the laughter and the tears
Of all the world; who held the freedom of his mood,
Love, and the dreaming harp that made the world a dream,
The comradeship of feasts, the wild joy of the chase,
Dearer than power; Fergus, who sang in after years
The raid of red Queen Meave, the wasting of the Branch,
Breaches in famous loves, long wars, and deaths renowned
Of many a feaster there; where Conall now in mirth
Pledged his old friend, whose son ere long by him should fall.

And there Fardia felt the broad hand of his death
Laid on his shoulder now in comrade's love; for there,
A friend beside his friend, unarmed Cuchullin sat,
Like a swift hound for strength and graceful slenderness,
In the first flower of his youth; the colours of his face
Fresh as the dawning day, and in his clear blue eyes
The glad undaunted light of life's unsullied morn.

There in his royal state, a grave man among Kings,
Sat Conchobar, still, stern. The dark flame of his face
Tamed, as the sun the stars, all faces else: a face
Of subtle splendour; brows of wisdom, broad and high,
Where strenuous youth had scored the runes of hidden power
Not easily read; a mouth pliant for speech, an eye
Whose ambushed fires at need could terribly outleap
In menace or command, mastering the wills of men.

He wore upon him all the colours of a King

The colours distinctive of the different classes of society were regulated by strict sumptuary laws, first formulated by Eochaidh ‘of the Clothes.’ One colour was prescribed for servants, two for rent-paying farmers, three for officers, five for chiefs, six for ollavs (doctors or learned men) and poets, seven for Kings. The King wore the three grave colours of age, symbolic of wisdom, and the four gay colours of youth, symbolic of practical activity.

By ancient laws ordained: the three colours, the white,
Crimson, and black; with these blending, by ancient law,
The four colours, the red, yellow, and green, and blue,
Enriched with gleaming gold. But subtly Conchobar
Loved to display the seven fair colours of a King,
Inwoven and intertwined in traceries quaint and rare;
And his keen eye would search the play of shimmering hues,
Even as his ear the turns and tricks of tuneful art
Of skilled harpers. For craft of hand as craft of mind
Was ever his delight, and subtle as his mind
Ever his dress. No King in splendour was his peer,
Each looked a gaudy clown, at vie with Conchobar.

Over his chair of state four silver posts upheld
A silken canopy; and by him were his arms:
‘The Hawk,’ his casting-spear, that never left his hand
But death sang in its scream; and, in its jewelled sheath,
His sword, ‘Flame of the Sea,’ won by his sires, of yore,
From some slain Eastern King—the blade, with wizard spells,
Tempered in magic baths under the Syrian moon.
But in the House of Arms, bode his long thrusting-spear,
‘Spoil-winner’ there too bode, far famed in bardic song,
‘The Bellower,’ his great shield, seven-bossed, whose pealing voice,
Loud o'er the battle's roar, would call its vassal waves,
The wave of Toth, the wave of Rury, and the wave
Of Cleena, the three waves, to thunder on their shores,
Ireland's three magic waves, at danger of her King.

On the High-King's right hand sat Cathvah, that white peer
Of hoary Time, like Time wrinkled and hoar; the beard
Upon his breast, the hair upon his druid head
Wintered with eld; Cathvah, whose voice was like the sea's
For mystery and awe, and like the brooding sea
Blue were his druid eyes, and sad with things to come.

And on his left was set old Shancha of the Laws,
His Councillor; none lived wiser in all the lore
Of state-craft, and the laws and customs of old time.
Thin was his shaven face; deep under the black brows
Gleamed his keen eyes that weighed coldly each thing they saw;
Long was his head and high, fringed round with silver hair;
Smooth as an egg above, where baldness on the dome
Sat in grave state, yet looked no blemish where it sat.
These two after the King were honoured in the hall.

On wings of song flew by the hastening day, and song
Led in the hooded night, soft stealing on the feast;
And without stint the wife of Felimy the Bard
Crowned the great horn with ale, with mead the golden cup,
To circle the great hall. Praised for her open hand,
She served with nimble cheer, though now her hour drew nigh.

But when the hearts of all were merry, and their brains
Hummed with the humming ale, and drowsily the harps
Murmured of deeds long done, till sleep with downy wing
Fanned heavy lids, a cry, a thin keen shuddering cry,
Rang eerily through the hall, dumbing all tongues, for lo!
Foreboding birth's dread hour, loud shrieked the babe unborn.

Then cheeks grew pale that ne'er in danger's grimmest hour
Failed of their wholesome red; and ghastly looks met looks
As ghastly in the eyes of champions whose proud names
Were songs of valour. First came loosing of the tongue
To Felimy. His words shook on the breath of fear:
‘Woman, what woeful voice that rends my heart like steel
Keenes from thee now?’ His wife with trembling hands of prayer
Sank pale at Cathvah's feet: ‘From what night-shrieking wraith,
O Druid, came that voice? A hand of ice is laid
Upon my heart: the keene comes to the house of death!’

And Cathvah said: ‘A child cries in the gate of birth
For terror of this world; yet shall she be the queen
Of all this world for beauty. Ushered by fear she comes,
And “Dread” shall be her name; Deirdrè I name her now,
For dear shall Eri dree her beauty and her birth.’

Then, with her pangs upon her, the mother from the hall
Was hurried by her maids; and ere they rose that night
A wail was in the house, for Death came to that birth,
And Deirdrè's mother passed with the coming of her child.

Anon the aged crones that haunt with equal feet
The house of joy or tears, priestesses hoar like-skilled
In rites of death or birth, solemnly up the hall
Paced slow, bearing the babe; and with a weeping word,
‘Thy dead wife sends thee this,’ laid it in its father's arms.
And Felimy bent down, and dazed with sudden grief,
Kissed it without a tear. Then Cathvah took the child
And o'er its new-born head murmured his druid song:

THE DRUID SONG OF CATHVAH.

1

O Deirdrè, terrible child,
For thee, red star of our ruin,
Great weeping shall be in Eri,
Woe, woe, and a breach in Ulla!

2

The flame of thy dawn shall kindle
The pride of Kings to possess thee,
The spite of Queens for thy slander:
In seas of blood is thy setting.

3

War, war is thy bridesmaid,
Thou soft, small whelp of terror;
Thy feet shall trample the mighty,
Yet stumble on heads thou lovest.

4

The little heap of thy grave
Shall dwell in thy desolation;
Sad songs shall wail over Eri
Thy dolorous name, O Deirdrè!

To the nurse he gave the child. In silence from the hall
Deirdrè was borne. Anon the vast hush of the night
Was filled with dreadful sound: the shield of Conchobar,
Raising its brazen voice within the House of Arms,
Bellowed; and at its call a mighty voice they knew
Thundered from the far shore, the voice of the great wave
Of Rury. And the voice of the great wave of Toth,
And the great wave of Cleena, answered him from afar,
Thundering upon their shores at danger of their King.

They heard, and faces stern grimly about the board
Met in pale questioning fear faces as stern; and all
The house murmured, and sounds of wrathful note were heard,
Boding a storm. Then rose an old grey wolf of war,
And said: ‘An evil babe is born this night in Ulla,
Crush dragons in the egg, be Deirdrè but a dream.’

And so from tongue to tongue that name of fear was tost,
‘Deirdrè!’ And many cried: ‘Slay her!’ Fierce with vague dread,
Bayed in full cry the Hounds of Ulla

The race of Rury was called the ‘Race of Hounds;’ hound being a term of honour. Con or Cu, which means hound, enters into the names of many chiefs, e.g. Conchobar (Hound of Glory), Cuchullain (Hound of Culann), &c.

for the blood
Of one weak babe. Then well for Deirdrè that her nurse
Fled with her from the house: a hundred swords had else,
Gashing in savage haste her beauty's tender bud,
Stilled her small cry: so fierce is panic in the brave!

But Felimy, who sat dumb in the sudden storm,
Sprang to his feet, and pale, with trembling hand essayed
His branch's tremulous rain of golden sound. Meanwhile
Conchobar mused; but now his inward-beaming eye
Lightened athwart the din, as with firm hand he smote
The silver sounding-dish hung by his chair, and woke
The sweet commanding voice of music in the plate,
And thrice he struck, and made the silence of a King.

And frowning down the board, and with stern voice, as when
From a mean quarry in scorn the huntsman calls his pack:
‘What scares you thus?’ he cried. ‘Shall we, warriors, whose life
Is war, for fear of wars run mad? Shame on the sword
That leaps not in defence of valour's golden prize!’

Then to his host he turned, and said: ‘O Felimy,
This child will be the flower of all the world, a thing
Unsistered, terrible. Before the face of Kings
Danger should quail: I claim thy daughter's perilous hand,
Black be his grave who wrongs the bride of Conchobar!’

He spoke, and through the night, from the great House of Arms
Sounded with brazen voice, once more, his mighty shield,
‘The Bellower,’ with dread roar calling its vassal waves,
The wave of Toth, the wave of Cleena, and the wave
Of Rury—the three waves, to thunder on their shores,
Ireland's three magic waves, at danger of her King.

Then, in the wondering hush of guests, the Bard looked up.
‘Take her,’ sighed Felimy; ‘on me and on my house
Her danger fall: on thee and Ulla shine her grace!’
And mournfully in its house murmured the groaning shield,
Mournfully on their shores moaned the three druid waves.

‘What sayest thou to my waves, Cathvah?’ said Conchobar.
And Cathvah smiled on him a sad and flickering smile:
‘Hold her, O King, thou hast dominion in thy hand,
Lose her, and with her goes thy glory and thy power.’

‘Now, by the Ard-roth, my brooch where sits my sovereignty,
A good word,’ said the King, ‘O Cathvah, is that word!
What nobler bride could King desire, that wears upon him
A battle-winning sword? Great is the doom and stern
That on thy tongue this night chimes with my heart's high song:
Loud let the waves thunder my Deirdrè's dreadful name!’

He spoke, and with bold voice challenged the woe to come,
Down the great hall his eyes lightening in sudden scorn;
And harp and voice acclaimed the choice of the High-King.
So Deirdrè came, so passed the perilous gates of birth.