Tag: Poems

  • An Irish Poem on the Wise Men

    J. R. Allen, Early Christian Symbolism in Gt Britain and Ireland (1887)

    January 6 is the feast of the Epiphany, which in the western church is associated with the bringing of gifts to the infant Christ by Magi from the East. Today we take it for granted that there were three wise men, with the names Caspar, Melchior and Balthasar, but this tradition was a long time in the making. The account of the visit in Saint Matthew’s Gospel makes no mention of the number of magi, much less their names, and the idea that there were three wise men seems to be based solely on the number of gifts recorded in the gospel. The Visit of the Magi is a popular theme in medieval European art including that of Ireland. One intriguing representation is found on the tenth-century Muiredach’s Cross at Monasterboice and if you look at the image above you will see that there are actually four figures approaching the newborn Christ.  The identity and significance of the ‘fourth man’ is still a subject of debate among scholars. The Magi also occur in Irish literary sources. In a paper delivered by the scholarly Irish Anglican Bishop, William Reeves, on the subject of an Irish manuscript held in the British Museum, he describes the contents of Folio 5 b as:

    An Irish poem on the Wise Men of the East who were led by the star to Bethlehem, consisting of eleven quatrains….The poem is as follows, and the accompanying translation is from the accurate pen of Mr. Eugene Curry.

    Auirilius, Humilis, the noble,
    Malgalad, Nuntius, of fierce strength,
    Melcho the grey-haired, without guile,
    With his grey and very long beard.

    A senior with a graceful yellow cloak.
    With a grey frock of ample size,
    Speckled and grey sandals without fault,
    He approached not the King without royal gold.

    Arenus, Fidelis, the munificent,
    Galgalad the devout and fervent;
    A red man was Caspar in his vesture
    A fair, blooming, beardless youth.

    A crimson cloak round the comely champion,
    A yellow frock without variety,
    Grey and close-fitting sandals:
    Frankincense unto God he freely presented.

    Damascus was the third man of them,
    Misericors, without dejection,
    Sincera gratia without restraint,
    Patifarsat the truly-grand.

    A grizzled man with a crimson, white-spotted cloak:
    Crimsoned stood he, above all without competition,
    With soft and yellow sandals,
    Who presented myrrh to the Great Man.

    These are the names of the Druids
    In Hebrew, in Greek to be quickly spoken,
    In Latin which runs not rapidly.
    In the noble language of Arabia.

    The colour of their clothes hear ye.
    As spoken in each of their countries:
    Selva, for the performers of heroic deeds,
    Debdae, Aesae, Escidae.

    Three were the Druids without gloom;
    Triple were their gifts in noble fashion;
    Three garments were upon each man of them;
    From three worlds they came without debility.

    Mary, Joseph, and noble Simeon,
    Of the tribe of Judah of the noble kings,
    Are in the house in which every hand is a lighted torch.
    All together with the Trinity.

    May we do thy will, O King,
    And desire it with all our heart:
    Thou art gracious to relieve us in our distress,
    Since the day thou wast adored by Aurelius.

    Rev W. Reeves, ‘On an Irish MS. of the Four Gospels in the British Museum’, Proceedings of the Royal Irish Academy, Vol. V., (1853), 47-50.

    Dr Reeves goes on to discuss the possible sources for the descriptive information relating to the Magi in his footnotes but as these are all cited in Latin I won’t reproduce them here. He also later discusses the dating evidence for the Manuscript and concludes that  it was written in the twelfth century.

  • 'The High-King of Heaven was born in kindly Bethlehem at Christmas' – a 15th-century Irish Poem



    Mary, the smooth white ewe, bore an
    illustrious Lamb in the stall of an ass; she merited not a mean cold lodging
    when the illustrious Lamb was with His mother.

    The High-King of Heaven was born in kindly
    Bethlehem at Christmas; when He was born He took a course from the sun so that
    He warmed the world with His glowing heat.
    The windows of the moon and ether opened at
    the tidings, so that the sun flung wide his doors, heretofore there had been a
    veil over his light.
    The air was full of his radiance, ’twas
    easy to notice it, it was one bright grove of angels reaching to heaven over
    Holy Mary.

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    Quiggin, Edmund Crosby ‘Prolegomena to the study of the later Irish bards 1200-1500′(Oxford,1911), 39.

    Content Copyright © Omnium Sanctorum Hiberniae 2012-2015. All rights reserved.

  • Saint Attracta's Stags

     

    Below is a poem telling the story of the miracle of the hard-hearted King Keannfaelid and Saint Attracta, whose feast is celebrated on August 11:

    THE BALLAD OF SAINT ATHRACTA’S STAGS

    ATHRACTA was a maiden fair,
    A Prince’s daughter she;
    Down to her feet fell golden hair,
    A wondrous sight to see.

    And all amid this golden shower,
    The sweetest rosebud face
    Blossomed like a dew-fed flower
    Upon a stem of grace.

    Yet loved she not the court of kings,
    But in the wild would be,
    With but one maid her hair to braid
    And bear her company.

    So, near Lough Gara’s silver sheen,
    They built of turf and bark
    A hut wherein from springtide green
    They dwelt through winter’s dark.

    On seven cross-roads the hut was made,
    That they might offer rest
    To pilgrims by the night waylaid,
    And strangers hunger-pressed.

    To draw them water from the lake,
    To till their little soil,
    Two ancient horses did they take,
    Outworn for other toil.

    Once gallant chargers these had been,
    Keen-eyed and prancing gay,
    Who tourneys brave and wars had seen,
    All decked in bright array.

    But now their age in peace was spent
    By kind Athracta’s side ;
    No gallant wars, no tournament,
    And yet they served with pride.

    Their neighbors in the forest glades
    Were stately, antlered deer,
    Nor of the two most holy maids
    Had these, their brothers, fear.

    So dwelt the maidens there alone
    For many months and years,
    The doings of the world unknown,
    Its wars, its woes, its tears.

    But strife was stirring in the land,
    And kings must castles build,
    To guard them from the foeman’s hand
    With fire and weapon filled.

    And so the King’s most stern decree
    Went forth upon a day,
    “My serfs must build a fort for me,
    Each must his service pay”.

    “Each man and maiden must fulfill
    In this great work his share ;
    It is the King of Connaught’s will,
    Let tardy hands beware!”

    Athracta sent unto the King :
    “We be but maidens twain,
    My Liege, we cannot do this thing,
    I beg we may refrain.”

    But sternly sent he back the word,
    “Ye maids must do your part.”
    He was a hard and cruel lord,
    No pity touched his heart.

    So forth they fared into the wood,
    Athracta with her maid,
    To fell the timber as they could,
    Without of men for aid.

    Heavy the axe and full of pain
    Each weak and skill-less stroke,
    Yet strove the maids again, again,
    With walnut, beech, and oak.

    Until upon the wagon cast
    By which the horses stood,
    Their bleeding hands had piled at last
    The goodly logs of wood.

    But when Athracta saw the steeds
    Straining with feeble will
    To draw the heavy load, it needs
    Must make her eyes to fill.

    Athracta spoke all piteously,
    “Alack ! poor broken things,
    Must you, too, bear your painful share
    To save the pride of Kings?”

    “How can I ease your burden, how,
    My faithful servants still?
    My little hands are bleeding now
    With toil beyond their skill.”

    “O mistress dear,” then spoke her maid,
    “These be but feeble nags;
    How would the King’s pride be dismayed
    If you could harness Stags!”

    “Thou sayest well,” Athracta vowed.
    “Come hither, Stags!” she cried,
    And lo! the thud of hoofs grew loud
    Ere yet the echo died.

    “Come hither, Stags!” O’er green and glade
    The silver summons thrilled,
    And soon the space about the maid
    With antlered kings was filled.

    Through moss and fern and tangled trees
    Twelve panting creatures broke,
    And bending low their stately knees
    They knelt beneath the yoke.

    Now harnessed in the horses’ stead
    The great Stags strained their best,
    To please the Lady at their head
    And follow her behest.

    But lo! a vexing thing then happed;
    Scarce had they gained the road,
    The rusty chains of iron snapped
    Beneath the heavy load.

    Yet paused she not in weak despair,
    This noble-hearted maid,
    But loosed her heavy golden hair
    Out from its double braid.

    She loosed her locks so wonder-bright
    And shook them to the breeze;
    It seemed a beam of yellow light
    Had sifted through the trees.

    Then from amid this golden net
    She plucked some silken strands,
    And where the chains had first been set
    She bound them with her hands.

    She tied the ends against the strain,
    And knotted them with care,
    Then bade the Stags pull once again
    Upon the ropes of hair.

    And lo! the slender harness held,
    And lo! the antlered steeds
    Went forth to prove their generous love
    Lent to a maiden’s needs.

    Straight to the King her gift they bore
    To fill his heart with shame;
    And her true maiden went before
    To show him whence they came.

    Now when the King this wonder saw
    He turned all pale and red,
    “She hath a greater power than law,”
    He vowed, and bowed his head.

    “She hath a greater power than I,
    Whose slaves the wild stags be,
    And golden hair like this might snare
    E’en the wild heart of me.

    “No need to her of castles stout,
    No need of moat or tower,
    With antlered guardians about
    Her lonely wild-wood bower.

    ” No need to her of watch or ward,
    With friends like these at hand ;
    Bid her from me henceforth to be
    Queen of her little land.

    “Henceforth she is no serf of mine,
    Nor subject to my throne;
    Where’er her golden hair may shine
    That is her realm alone.”

    So where the seven cross-roads met
    Still dwelt the holy maid,
    Her hut a place of refuge set
    For all who shelter prayed.

    Her realm a holy place of peace,
    Where, with the ancient nags,
    Lived out their days in pleasant ways
    Athracta’s faithful Stags.

    Abbie Farwell Brown, The Book of Saints and Friendly Beasts (Boston and New York), 1900, 69-77.

    Content Copyright © Omnium Sanctorum Hiberniae 2012-2015. All rights reserved.