University of Virginia Library

It chanced upon a time, a magic time,
That Cormac, son of Art, arch-king of Erin,
Strode, musing, from his dun in Liathdrum
When lo! a noble youth upon the green,
And in his hand a glittering fairy branch
With nine bright apples of red gold thereon.

This was, indeed, the wonder-working bough,
That whoso shook, men wounded unto death
And women travail-tortured sank to sleep,
Soothed by the low, delicious lullaby
Those golden apples uttered. Nay, no want,
No woe, no weariness endures on earth
That swiftly stabs or slowly wastes the soul,
But this sweet branch, once shaken, wholly hides
In soft oblivion.

Therefore, spake the king,
“Declare thy coming! Is that branch thine own?”
“Yea, Sire,” the youth replied. “Would'st part with it?”
“Aye truly would I, so I won its worth.”
“What is the price thou askest?” “The award
Of mine own mouth.” “'Tis thine, yet name it me.”
“Then, king, I claim thy wife, thy son, thy daughter,
Chaste Eithne, gallant Cairbre, winsome Ailbhe.”
“Great was the price upon thy fairy branch;
Yet, for I pledged to thee thy mouth's award,
I fain must grant it all.”

Therewith the youth
Resigned the magic bough to Cormac's care,
And this the monarch bore within his dun
To Eithne, and to Cairbre, and to Ailbhe.

“A beauteous treasure hast thou brought us, father,”
Cried Ailbhe straight. “Small wonder,” sighed the king,
“Seeing it cost so dear.” “What gave you for it?”
“Thy brother, mother, and thyself, O Ailbhe.”
“That price were piteous, if thy words be true,”
Said Eithne; “for we trust that all the earth
Contains no treasure thou would'st change us for.”
“Alas! I plight you all my kingly word
That I have given you for this Fairy Bough,”
King Cormac answered weeping, and declared
The coming of the Bearer of the Branch.
Now when they proved the bitter tidings true,
Queen Eithne searched the sorrow-smitten face
Of Cormac, and for pity held her peace;
And Cairbre took her hand in his and spake not;
But Ailbhe snatched a gleaming knife, and shore
Close to her head her bright, abundant hair,
With “Father, often hast thou called these curls
Thy golden-branching joy—thus, thus they fall
Before the branch of gold that masters them.”

Then dark distress obscured the eyes of all,
And broke in bitter rain upon their cheeks,
And choked the cheerful family of words
With grievous sighs and great heart-bursting groans,
Till Cormac caught the wonder-working bough
And shook it softly o'er them, and forthwith,
Soothed by the low, delicious lullaby
Those golden apples uttered, they forgot
What ill had happ'd them, and arose and went
With smiles to meet the Bearer of the Branch;
Howbeit with tears King Cormac strode before.
When, lo, the youth! Then Cormac: “See thy price,
The heavy price I pledged thee for this branch.”
“Well hast thou kept thy promise; wherefore take
A blessing for thy truth's sake; aye, a blessing
Shall win thee victory.” Thus they went their way—
The youth and his companions glad at heart:
The other wifeless, childless, full of woe.

Now on the morrow, when that mournful news
Was noised abroad through Erin, loud laments
Arose from all the land, but in Teamhair
The loudest, from the princes round the throne
To lowliest labourer in the royal fields;
So dear beloved was Eithne for her wealth
Of queenly wit and wisdom—dearer still
For constant deeds of thoughtfullest charity;
So dear beloved was Cairbre for his might
Of manly youth, not lightly roused to wrath,
Yet swift and sure to succour the oppressed;
So dear beloved was Ailbhe for her dower
Of artless beauty and her voice of song,
That held the blackbirds hushed in Derrycarn.

These, therefore, all the land with many tears
Bewailing wept; and tho' their monarch yearned
To share with them his sorrow, ne'ertheless
In pity for his people, once again
He raised the fairy branch of glittering gold
And shook it in their midst, and so subdued
Their grief with glamour till they smiled again.

Yet Cormac's grief possessed him more and more,
Seeing he mourned alone; and though in court
He ever kept a seeming cheerful face,
Nor lived less instant in his daily round
Of royal duty: yet the thoughtful days
Of law and chess and judgment lightest lay
Upon his suffering spirit. Heavily went
The weekly wassail; sadly shone the dawns
Of race and chase, tho' bright to all beside.
But darkest gloomed the long, lone day of love;
For then within his palace, without food,
He mused, a mournful man; or wandering
From chamber on to chamber, smote
His bosom at the silent spinning wheel,
The stringless harp, or touched with trembling hand
The empty torque of gold, the empty fails
That last had clasped the lovely neck and arms,
The round white neck and snowy dimpled arms
Of Eithne; or with heavy foot awoke
A groan from Cairbre's armour on the wall—
A groan his sonless heart gave deeply back;
Or in the distance heard some damsel singing
A favourite song of Ailbhe's and drew forth
Her golden hair and bathed it in his tears.

At last the king's high-ollamh thus began:
“O Cormac, son of Art and son of Conn
The hundred-battled, let our souls declare
What long hath lain a burthen on our peace.
We see thee seeming cheerful on the days
Of weekly wassail, chess, and race and chase,
Yet to the careful eye concealing grief:
We mark thee on the morns of law and judgment
Discreetly question and deliberate weave
Thy ordered thoughts in well-knit weighty speech,
Yet miss thee, as of old, on thy discourses
Broidering the opal flowers of eloquence,
Or flashing through them, to the listener's joy,
The diamond ray of reason-dazzling wit.
Nay, when that suitor seeking penalty
Exceeding great for satire on himself
So bitter true, that when big-bellied, bald
With blunder-breeding tongue, he raging rose
Before the Brehon who rehearsed the rann,
A shout of long, side-shaking laughter broke
From all the young at once, till here and there
Flashing a furious glance, the satirised
Retreated with his paunch toward thee, king,
Yet careless of his trailing scabbard, tripped,
And backward staggering with blind hands in air
Caught the chief cook by his long, foxy beard
Behind the door, and fistful of red hair
Plumped howling on the pavement. Then ourselves,
The elders, might no more restrain the mirth
That swelled our cheeks to bursting. Out it blew
In bass so brazen or such bleating treble
All laughed the louder save thyself alone,
Only one smile, one faintly flickering smile
Of dim December sunshine lit thy lips.
Now in the name of all thy loving people,
Princes and Lords and Commons, I am come
Beseeching thee that I may take the Branch
And shake it o'er thy head and so subdue
Thy grief with glamour, that the memory
Of all thine evil loss may from thy mind
Fade utterly, and again thou may'st arise
And take to wife the fairest, purest Princess
Wide-bordered Erin boasts, and sow anew
Seed-royal that shall richly around thee rise—
Thy manhood's hope, thy flowering fence of age.”

Yet Cormac yielded not his people's prayer,
But root-fast in his barren grief endured,
Until the leaden pacing year revolved
To the dark day that left him desolate.
Then he arose and thrust the Fairy Branch
Into his bosom and went forth alone
To that sad region where his Three had left him;
When straight a magic mist gathered and gloomed,
Nor melted, till there smote upon his ear
The sound of manly voices sweetly singing
To harp and tympan touched with tuneful skill.
And look, a noble company of youths
With five slain harts and fifty wearied hounds
Beneath a mighty hunting-booth carousing
Upon the mountain. These with gracious greeting
Rising received him, and their chief approached,
And in an hospitable hand took his,
And led him to the seat of utmost honour
Beside him, and besought him to partake
Their banquet, ever host-like urging him
To each its choicest dainties. But the soul
Of Cormac craved no meats, tho' much he praised them,
And ever guest-like feigned an unfelt hunger:
Yet as they spake and jested, and sang and harped,
Scarce tasting food, he quaffed the circling cup,
Red with the grape and sweet with heather honey,
Until his heart grew merry and he forgot
The Fairy Branch; then swift his host put forth
A secret hand to where it shook and sparkled
Within his bosom, when lo! the three gold apples
That hung the lowest of the nine rang forth
A tuneless warning, and the monarch caught
The robber's wrist, and wrung the bough therefrom,
And shook it o'er him and his company,
And forthwith they fell grovelling to the ground
In the similitude of filthy swine;
And Cormac knew that he had scarce escaped
The Cup of Cursing, that of the face of man
Stamped with God's image makes a bestial front,
And of the mouth, wherefrom His prayer and praise
Should chiefly flow—a monster's ravening maw.

Again a mist of magic gathering gloomed
Around the king, nor passed from off his path
Until the moon of harvest thrilled it through
With golden glimmering glory, and he was 'ware
Of one apparelled as a princess, crouched
Wild weeping on the earth, her reckless hands
Rending her radiant hair. And Cormac's heart
Was melted, and he asked her of her grief.
Then with bowed head she poured a lamentation
Of her young lover fallen in fight.
And Cormac met her woe with words of solace
And she took comfort and turned to him a face
Whiter than any swan upon the wave—
A form of fairer fashion. Then the king
Looked closelier at her, and with wonder viewed
Her yellow curls, clustering like rings of gold
Around her waist, and marked her tearful eyes
Dart through their dusky fringes a dewy beam
Bluer than ever evening's weeping star
Shed through the curtain of a summer's cloud:
When suddenly she opened them full on him
With wistful gaze, and as she looked a blush
Took her pale visage, while her slender hand
Stole throbbing into his. A mighty spell
Possessed his soul, and nearer still and nearer
He drew her, till he breathed her red lips' balm
And passionately had pressed them to his own—
When lo! the midmost row of apples rang
The warning of the Branch, and in his breast
He caught the woman's thievish hand upon it,
And wrung it from her grasp, and o'er her head
Shook it, and of a sudden her soft white palm
Shrivelled, her lovely apple blossom cheeks
Withered away, her eyes of heavenly blue
Grew blear and evil, all her swan-like shape
Dwindled and shrank; till at the last there writhed
Whining before him a little crook-back witch.

Once more the magic mist obscured his course,
Nor passed until the sun, with purple beam
Piercing its cloud, displayed a goodly group
Of sages seated, all with eager speech
In such dispute, none knew or seemed to know
Cormac had joined him to their company,
Until an end was made to their discourse
Sophistical of Love and Life and Death.
Then with a courteous welcome they inquired
His mind upon their thoughts, and led him on,
Lauding his judgment, gravely to propound
And keenly argue; till at last he grew
So soul-enamoured of their sophistries
That when the sage in chief with flattering tongue
Besought him bide with them continually—
Such need, such heavy need, had they of one
In wit so shrewd, in eloquence so lofty—
He fain had fared with them, but ere he spoke
The young Branch-bearer's words came back to him:
“Well hast thou kept thy promise; wherefore take
A blessing for thy truth's sake—aye, a blessing
Shall win thee victory,” while a tuneless peal
Rang from the topmost row of golden apples
Upon the fairy bough, and Cormac caught
The elder's thievish hand within his bosom
Upon the branch, and wrung it fiercely from him,
And shook it o'er him and his sophist crew;
And lo! they vanished gibbering before him,
A grinning troop of fleshless skeletons.

Again the King of Erin went his ways,
Nor now had been long journeying, when there stretched
An hundred-acred field before him, bright
With stooks of golden corn; three spear-casts further,
Crowning a sudden, green, far-looking mound,
A mansion, many windowed, sunset-flattered
To topaz, ruby, amethyst, shone and sparkled
A thousand welcomes, while; behind, a forest
Laughed back all emerald.

Through the field of corn
He swiftly strode, with noble heart presaging
His goal at last, and climbed the hill and sought
The mansion, took the hand-log in his hand
And boldly knocked. Immediate to the wall
The door sprang open of its own accord,
While from within a mighty summons came,
“In God's name enter!” Straight he entered in,
Following the voice, and reached a royal hall,
Huge, black-oak-raftered, silver-pillared, hung
Its circuit through with brightly burnished arms,
Elk-antlers, giant boar-tusks, jewelled breakers—
By seven great archways pierced, with couches seven,
Silk canopied, yew-carven, fine-fur-covered
Betwixt each twain; a royal champion's seat
Of beaten gold before its blazing hearth,
And on the seat a princely chieftain, clad
In many-coloured raiment, at his side
A bright apparelled Princess.

These arose
At Cormac's coming, and bespake him thus:
“Whoe'r thou art, oh! stranger, 'tis no hour
To further fare on foot, seeing the sun
Is well-nigh set; then sit thee down with us
And share our banquet, and abide the night
Beneath our roof, till rosy morn return.”
Then Cormac, son of Art, sat gladly down.
“Go forth now to the grove,” the woman cried,
“Oh! goodman of the house; thy spear in hand,
For lo! there lacks sufficiency of meat
To sate our want.” Therewith the chief arose,
His hunting spear in hand, and fared abroad;
Nor tarried long without but soon returned
A great wood-ranging, acorn-crushing boar,
Fresh skinned and cleaned and quartered, on his back,
And in his hand a mighty log of pine;
And cast them down before the fire; and thus
To Cormac and the Princess smiling spake:
“There have ye meat, now cook it for yourselves!”
“After what manner?” asked the son of Art.
“That I will teach thee,” saith his host; “Arise
And make four quarters of this log of pine,
Then lay a quarter log upon the fire,
And o'er it one full quarter of the boar,
And tell a tale of truth, however short,
Above it, and that quarter shall be roast.”
Then Cormac rose and caught a glittering axe,
And proved it keen and true, and eyed the wood,
And stepping backwards swung the biting steel
Once from his shoulder, and the great log fell
Clean cleft in twain; twice, thrice, and smote in half
Each equal portion.

Next the woman laid
A quarter faggot on the leaping fire,
And o'er it one full quarter of the swine.
Then Cormac spake: “Since each hath borne his part,
'Twere ill-befitting that the one, a guest,
Should further tell a tale of truth for two—
His host and hostess.” “Right thou art forsooth,”
The Prince replied “And now methinks thy speech,
Matched with thy noble mien, bewrays thee royal;
Therefore my story first.

That boar is one
Of seven, yet could I feed the world with them;
For I have but to take his bones abroad,
And bury them beneath a sacred tree,
And, look, the sod begins to sway and surge,
Till sudden, from his scarce dug sepulchre,
The monstrous beast breaks bellowing away.”
That tale was true; and lo! the flesh was roast.
“Tell now thy tale, fair princess,” saith the king.
“I will,” quoth she, “but do thou first lay down
Thy quarter log upon the leaping fire,
And o'er it one full quarter of the boar.”
So it was done.

“Seven cows are mine,” saith she,
“Snow white from horn to hoof, and not a day
Dawns or declines but these with matchless milk
Fill seven full kieves, and here's my hand to you,
My kine could milk enough to satisfy
The souls of all the sons of earth assembled
Athirst on yonder plain.”

That tale was true.
And lo! her quarter of the boar was roast.
Then Cormac: “If thy tale be true indeed
Thy husband there is Mananan, thyself
His wedded wife; for on the face of earth
Exists there not the owner of such treasures,
Save Mananan alone, for to Tir Tairrngire
He went to seek thy hand and won it well,
And therewithal to dower these wondrous cows,
And coughed upon them till he quite constrained
Their udders to his will.”

“Full wisely now
Hast thou divined us both!” cried Mananan.
“But tell a story for thy quarter now.”
“Ay! sure,” saith Cormac, “yet do thou lay down
Thy faggot now upon the leaping fire,
And over it thy quarter of the swine.”
So it was done, and thus the king outspake:
“I come, indeed, upon an anxious quest,
For 'tis a year to-day my wife and son
And daughter, three most dear on earth to me,
Were borne afar.” “By whom?” asked Mananan.
“A youth,” the King replied, “there came to me,
Bearing a golden branch, for which my heart
Conceived so deep desire, I granted him
The full award of his own mouth for it,
The which he thus pronounced against my peace:
‘Therefore, I claim thy wife, thy son, thy daughter—
Chaste Eithne, gallant Cairbre, winsome Ailbhe.’”

“If what thou sayest be true,” cried Mananan,
“Thyself art Cormac, son of Art, the son
Of hundred-battled Conn.” “That same am I,”
Quoth Cormac, “and in quest of these I come.”
That tale was true, and lo! his quarter roast.

“Eat now thy meat,” bespake him Mananan.
“I never yet broke bread,” the king replied,
“Having two only in my company.”
“Would'st thou consume it with three more, O Cormac?”
“Yea, good mine host, were they but dear to me.”
Then Mananan arose and oped the door,
The farthest from his hearth, and straight led in
Chaste Eithne, gallant Cairbre, winsome Ailbhe;
And these in utter rapture around him clinging
The king embraced with tears and sobs of joy.
Thereafter Cormac and his Queen and Children
Sat down to meat, and on the festal board
A table-cloth of snowy silk was spread.
“'Tis a full precious thing thou seest before thee,
O Cormac, son of Art,” saith Mananan;
“For never yet was food so delicate
But thrice demanded of this charméd cloth
Straight stands thereon.” “Nay, that indeed is well,”
Quoth Cormac. Then the other smiling thrust
His hand into his girdle and drew forth
A golden cup and set it on his palm.
“A magic marvel is this cup of mine,
Seeing no drink can be desired therefrom,
But look, the same leaps bubbling to its brim!”
“That too is well, O Mananan!” “Moreover,
'Tis of the virtues of this magic cup
That when a lying tale is told before it,
Lo! it lies broken. Tell a tale of truth,
And on the instant it is whole again.”
“Let that be proved, O Mananan!” “Then give ear,
O Cormac! This thy wife I bore from thee
In sooth hath had another husband since.”
Therewith in pieces lay the fairy cup.
“A lying tale!” his princess answered him;
“Nor man nor woman hath she seen, save us
And these her children dear.” That tale was true,
And straight the fairy cup was whole again.
“Priceless possessions verily are these,
O Mananan,” saith Cormac. “Thine henceforth,
Two precious tokens, Cormac, of my friendship—
To wit, the Charméd Cloth and Magic Cup;
The Fairy Branch, moreover, treasure still.
And now the banquet waits us, and believe
That hadst thou here an host in multitude
Not one should miss of hospitable cheer;
And in this cup I pledge thee, for I searched
Thine inmost soul with spells, that thou and these
Might share this joyful feast of fellowship.”

Thereafterward they supped right royally;
For not a meat they thought on but that cloth
Forthwith displayed, nor any drink desired
But straight it sparkled in that magic cup.
And for that fairy feast to Mananan
The four gave thanks exceeding, and arose
And bade their hosts good night, and laid them down
On kingly couches richly strewn for them,
And swiftly fell on slumber and sweet sleep;
And where they woke upon the morrow morn
Was in their pleasant palace Liathdrum.

“Bravo! Parson. But where did you raise your variety
Of that Text of the Old Ossianic Society?”
“That's my secret, O'Hea, my Paul Pry of the Press.
But, An Creeveen, your ear!”

“Was it he, now?”
“No less!”
Then O'Leary laughed out: “Let me try and translate
In a rann the thoughts running through Pat O'Hea's pate.
“My Paul Pry of the Press! Well, for that I'll your locks comb,
In ‘The Comet,’ my ecclesiastical Coxcomb!”
Cried an Creeveen: “O'Leary, don't meddle or mix,
Or conceive you can set two such friends at cross sticks!
What odds where the Parson procured his True Tale,
'Tis a genuine growth from the heart of the Gael,
With old roughnesses smoothed, but not polished away—
Tennysonian somewhat in parts, I would say;
Yet that great Wizard's spell, when our young poets shape
Hero tales in blank verse, who can wholly escape?
Well! McArt's Orpheus Story was out and out tragic,
And the other two Tales both escaped grief by magic;
But, before our Grand Shenachus Evening is done,
Can't we have just one screed full of frolicking fun?”
“Aye! aye!” we all answered, with shouts for Dick Dunn;
And Dick, the best playboy in old Dublin City,
Cried, “Hark, then, this dog'rel, no! Pig-erel Ditty!
Which I caught up in Kerry, a year or more back,
Beside Derryquin from one old Dr. Mack.”