A Celtic Psaltery Part 7
(By Muiredach O'Daly, late twelfth century, when he and Cathal More of the Red Hand, King of Connaught, entered the monastic life together.)
Murdoch, whet thy razor's edge, Our crowns to pledge to Heaven's Ardrigh!
Vow we now our hair fine-tressed To the Blessed Trinity!
Now my head I shear to Mary; 'Tis a true heart's very due.
Shapely, soft-eyed Chieftain now Shear thy brow to Mary, too!
Seldom on thy head, fair Chief, Hath a barbing-knife been plied; Oft the fairest of Princesses Combed her tresses at thy side.
Whensoever we did bathe, We found no scathe, yourself and I, With Brian of the well-curled locks, From hidden rocks and currents wry.
And most I mind what once befell Beside the well of fair Boru-- I swam a race with Ua Chais The icy flood of Fergus through.
When hand to hand the bank we reached, Swift foot to foot we stretched again, Till Duncan Cairbre, Chief of Chiefs, Gave us three knives--not now in vain.
No other blades such temper have; Then, Murdoch, shave with easy art!
Whet, Cathal of the Wine Red Hand, Thy Victor brand, in peaceful part!
Then our shorn heads from weather wild Shield, Daughter mild of Joachim!
Preserve us from the sun's fierce power, Mary, soft Flower of Jesse's Stem!
ON THE FLIGHTINESS OF THOUGHT
(A tenth-century poem. See _Eriu_, vol. iii, p. 13)
Shame upon my thoughts, O shame!
How they fly in order broken, Therefore much I fear for blame When the Trump of Doom has spoken.
At my psalms, they oft are set On a path the Fiend must pave them; Evermore, with fash and fret, In G.o.d's sight they misbehave them.
Through contending crowds they fleet, Companies of wanton women, Silent wood or strident street, Swifter than the breezes skimming.
Now through paths of loveliness, Now through ranks of shameful riot, Onward evermore they press, Fledged with folly and disquiet.
O'er the Ocean's sounding deep Now they flash like fiery levin; Now at one vast bound they leap Up from earth into the Heaven.
Thus afar and near they roam On their race of idle folly; Till at last to reason's home They return right melancholy.
Would you bind them wrist to wrist-- Foot to foot the truants shackle, From your toils away they twist Into air with giddy cackle.
Crack of whip or edge of steel Cannot hold them in your keeping; With the wriggle of an eel From your grasp they still go leaping.
Never yet was fetter found, Never lock contrived, to hold them; Never dungeon underground, Moor or mountain keep controlled them.
Thou whose glance alone makes pure, Searcher of all hearts and Saviour, With Thy Sevenfold Spirit cure My stray thoughts' unblessed behaviour.
G.o.d of earth, air, fire and flood, Rule me, rule me in such measure, That to my eternal good I may live to love Thy pleasure.
Christ's own flock thus may I reach, At the flash of Death's sharp sickle, Just in deed, of steadfast speech, Not, as now, infirm and fickle.
THE MONK AND HIS WHITE CAT
(After an eighth- or early ninth-century Irish poem. Text and translation in _Thesaurus Palaeohibernicus_.)
Pangar, my white cat, and I Silent ply our special crafts; Hunting mice his one pursuit, Mine to shoot keen spirit shafts.
Rest, I love, all fame beyond, In the bond of some rare book; Yet white Pangar from his play Casts, my way, no jealous look.
Thus alone within one cell Safe we dwell--not dull the tale-- Since his ever favourite sport Each to court will never fail.
Now a mouse, to swell his spoils, In his toils he spears with skill; Now a meaning deeply thought I have caught with startled thrill.
Now his green full-shining gaze Darts its rays against the wall; Now my feebler glances mark Through the dark bright knowledge fall.
Leaping up with joyful purr, In mouse fur his sharp claw sticks, Problems difficult and dear, With my spear I, too, transfix.
Crossing not each other's will, Diverse still, yet still allied, Following each his own lone ends, Constant friends we here abide.
Pangar, master of his art, Plays his part in pranksome youth; While in age sedate I clear Shadows from the sphere of Truth.
Invocations and Reflections
A PRAYER TO THE VIRGIN
(Edited by Strachan in _Eriu_, vol. i, p. 122. Tenth or perhaps ninth century)
Gentle Mary, n.o.ble Maiden, Hearken to our suppliant pleas!
Shrine G.o.d's only Son was laid in!