I am a wave of the sea
And the foam of the wave
And the wind of the foam
And the wings of the wind.
My soul’s in the salt of the sea
In the weight of the wave
In the bubbles of foam
In the ways of the wind.
My gift is the depth of the sea
The strength of the wave
The lightness of foam
The speed of the wind.
As a white candle
In a holy place,
So is the beauty
Of an aged face.
As the spent radience
Of the winter sun,
So is a woman
With her travail done.
Her brood gone from her,
And her thoughts as still
As the waters
Under a ruined mill.
I am the wind on the sea;
I am the wave of the sea;
I am the bull of seven battles;
I am the eagle on the rock
I am a flash from the sun;
I am the most beautiful of plants;
I am a strong wild boar;
I am a salmon in the water;
I am a lake in the plain;
I am the word of knowledge;
I am the head of the spear in battle;
I am the god that puts fire in the head;
Who spreads light in the gathering on the hills?
Who can tell the ages of the moon?
Who can tell the place where the sun rests?
Now at the time when the Tuatha de Danaan chose a king for themselves after the battle of Tailltin, and Lir heard the kingship was given to Bodb Dearg, it did not please him, and he left the gathering without leave and with no word to any one; for he thought it was he himself had a right to be made king.
But if he went away himself, Bodb was given the kingship none the less, for not one of the five begrudged it to him but only Lir, And it is what they determined, to follow after Lir, and to burn down his house, and to attack himself with spear and sword, on account of his not giving obedience to the king they had chosen. “We will not do that,” said Bodb Dearg, “for that man would defend any place he is in; and besides that,” he said, “I am none the less king over the Tuatha de Danaan, although he does not submit to me.”
All went on like that for a good while, but at last a great misfortune came on Lir, for his wife died from him after a sickness of three nights. And that came very hard on Lir, and there was heaviness on his mind after her. And there was great talk of the death of that woman in her own time.
And the news of it was told all through Ireland, and it came to the house of Bodb, and the best of the Men of Dea were with him at that time. And Bodb said:
“If Lir had a mind for it,”
“my help and my friendship would be good for him now,
since his wife is not living to him.
For I have here with me
the three young girls of the best shape,
and the best appearance,
and the best name in all Ireland,
Aobh, Aoife, and Ailbhe,
the three daughters of Oilell of Aran,
my own three nurselings.”
The Men of Dea said then it was a good thought he had, and that what he said was true.
Messages and messengers were sent then from Bodb Dearg to the place Lir was, to say that if he had a mind to join with the Son of the Dagda and to acknowledge his lordship, he would give him a foster-child of his foster-children.
And Lir thought well of the offer, and he set out on the morrow with fifty chariots from Sidhe Fionnachaidh; and he went by every short way till he came to Bodb’s dwelling-place at Loch Dearg, and there was a welcome before him there, and all the people were merry and pleasant before him, and he and his people got good attendance that night.
And the three daughters of Oilell of Aran were sitting on the one seat with Bodb Dearg’s wife, the queen of the Tuatha de Danaan, that was their foster-mother. And Bodb said:
“You may have your choice of the three young girls, Lir.”
“I cannot say,” said Lir,
“which one of them is my choice,
but whichever of them is the eldest,
she is the noblest,
and it is best for me to take her.”
“If that is so,” said Bodb,
“it is Aobh is the eldest,
and she will be given to you,
if it is your wish.”
“It is my wish,” he said.
And he took Aobh for his wife that night, and he stopped there for a fortnight, and then he brought her away to his own house, till he would make a great wedding-feast.
And in the course of time Aobh brought forth two children, a daughter and a son, Fionnuala and Aodh their names were. And after a while she was brought to bed again, and this time she gave birth to two sons, and they called them Fiachra and Conn. And she herself died at their birth. And that weighed very heavy on Lir, and only for the way his mind was set on his four children he would have gone near to die of grief.
The news came to Bodb Dearg’s place, and all the people gave out three loud, high cries, keening their nursling.
And after they had keened her it is what Bodb Dearg said:
“It is a fret to us our daughter to have died,
for her own sake and for the sake of the good man we gave her to,
for we are thankful for his friendship and his faithfulness.
However,” he said,
“our friendship with one another will not be broken,
for I will give him for a wife her sister Aoife.”
When Lir heard that, he came for the girl and married her, and brought her home to his house. And there was honour and affection with Aoife for her sister’s children; and indeed no person at all could see those four children without giving them the heart’s love.
And Bodb Dearg used often to be going to Lir’s house for the sake of those children; and he used to bring them to his own place for a good length of time, and then he would let them go back to their own place again. And the Men of Dea were at that time using the Feast of Age in every hill of the Sidhe in turn; and when they came to Lir’s hill those four children were their joy and delight, for the beauty of their appearance; and it is where they used to sleep, in beds in sight of their father Lir. And he used to rise up at the break of every morning, and to lie down among his children.
But it is what came of all this, that a fire of jealousy was kindled in Aoife, and she got to have a dislike and a hatred of her sister’s children.
Then she let on to have a sickness, that lasted through nearly the length of a year. And the end of that time she did a deed of jealousy and cruel treachery against the children of Lir.
And one day she got her chariot yoked, and she took the four children in it, and they went forward towards the house of Bodb Dearg; but Fionnuala had no mind to go with her, for she knew by her she had some plan for their death or their destruction, and she had seen in a dream that there was treachery against them in Aoife’s mind. But all the same she was not able to escape from what was before her.
And when they were on their way Aoife said to her people:
“Let you kill now,” she said,
“the four children of Lir,
for whose sake their father has given up my love,
and I will give you your own choice
of a reward out of all the good things of the world.”
“We will not do that indeed,” said they;
“and it is a bad deed you have thought of,
and harm will come to you out of it.”
And when they would not do as she bade them, she took out a sword herself to put an end to the children with; but she being a woman and with no good courage, and with no great strength in her mind, she was not able to do it.
They went on then west to Loch Dairbhreach, the Lake of the Oaks, and the horses were stopped there.
And Aoife bade the children of Lir to go out and bathe in the lake, and they did as she bade them.
And as soon as Aoife saw them out in the lake she struck them with a Druid rod, and put on them the shape of four swans, white and beautiful.
And it is what she said:
“Out with you, children of the king,
your luck is taken away from you for ever;
it is sorrowful the story will be to your friends;
it is with flocks of birds your cries will be heard for ever.”
And Fionnuala said: “Witch, we know now what your name is,
you have struck us down with no hope of relief;
but although you put us from wave to wave,
there are times when we will touch the land.
We shall get help when we are seen;
help, and all that is best for us;
even though we have to sleep upon the lake,
it is our minds will be going abroad early.”
And then the four children of Lir turned towards Aoife, and it is what Fionnuala said:
“It is a bad deed you have done,
Aoife, and it is a bad fulfilling of friendship,
you to destroy us without cause;
and vengeance for it will come upon you,
and you will fall in satisfaction for it,
for your power for our destruction
is not greater than the power of our friends to avenge it on you;
and put some bounds now,” she said,
“to the time this enchantment is to stop on us.”
“I will do that,” said Aoife,
“and it is worse for you,
you to have asked it of me.
And the bounds I set to your time are this,
till the Woman from the South and the Man from the North will come together. And since you ask to hear it of me,” she said,
“no friends and no power that you have
will be able to bring you out of these shapes you are in
through the length of your lives,
until you have been three hundred years on Loch Dairbhreach,
and three hundred years on Sruth na Maoile between Ireland and Alban,
and three hundred years at Irrus Domnann and Inis Gluaire;
and these are to be your journeys from this out,” she said.
But then repentance came on Aoife, and she said:
“Since there is no other help for me to give you now,
you may keep your own speech;
and you will be singing sweet music of the Sidhe,
that would put the men of the earth to sleep,
and there will be no music in the world equal to it;
and your own sense and your own nobility will stay with you,
the way it will not weigh so heavy on you to be in the shape of birds.
And go away out of my sight now,
children of Lir,” she said,
“with your white faces, with your stammering Irish.
It is a great curse on tender lads,
they to be driven out on the rough wind.
Nine hundred years to be on the water,
it is a long time for any one to be in pain;
it is I put this on you through treachery,
it is best for you to do as I tell you now.
“Lir, that got victory with so many a good cast,
his heart is a kernel of death in him now;
the groaning of the great hero is a sickness to me,
though it is I that have well earned his anger.”
And then the horses were caught for Aoife, and the chariot yoked for her, and she went on to the palace of Bodb Dearg, and there was a welcome before her from the chief people of the place. And the son of the Dagda asked her why she did not bring the children of Lir with her.
“I will tell you that,” she said.
“It is because Lir has no liking for you,
and he will not trust you with his children,
for fear you might keep them from him altogether.”
“I wonder at that,” said Bodb Dearg,
“for those children are dearer to me than my own children.”
And he thought in his own mind it was deceit the woman was doing on him, and it is what he did, he sent messengers to the north to Sidhe Fionnachaidh. And Lir asked them what did they come for.
“On the head of your children,” said they.
“Are they not gone to you along with Aoife?” he said.
“They are not,” said they;
“and Aoife said it was yourself would not let them come.”
It is downhearted and sorrowful Lir was at that news, for he understood well it was Aoife had destroyed or made an end of his children. And early in the morning of the morrow his horses were caught, and he set out on the road to the south-west.
And when he was as far as the shore of Loch Dairbhreach, the four children saw the horses coming towards them, and it is what Fionnuala said:
“A welcome to the troop of horses
I see coming near to the lake;
the people they are bringing are strong,
there is sadness on them;
it is us they are following,
it is for us they are looking;
let us move over to the shore, Aodh, Fiachra, and comely Conn.
Those that are coming can be no others in the world
but only Lir and his household.”
Then Lir came to the edge of the lake, and he took notice of the swans having the voice of living people, and he asked them why was it they had that voice.
“I will tell you that, Lir,” said Fionnuala.
“We are your own four children,
that are after being destroyed by your wife,
and by the sister of our own mother,
through the dint of her jealousy.”
“Is there any way to put you into your own shapes again?” said Lir.
“There is no way,” said Fionnuala,
“for all the men of the world could not help us
till we have gone through our time,
and that will not be,” she said,
“till the end of nine hundred years.”
When Lir and his people heard that, they gave out three great heavy shouts of grief and sorrow and crying.
“Is there a mind with you,” said Lir,
“to come to us on the land,
since you have your own sense and your memory yet?”
“We have not the power,” said Fionnuala,
“to live with any person at all from this time;
but we have our own language,
and we have the power to sing sweet music,
and it is enough to satisfy the whole race of men
to be listening to that music.
And let you stop here to-night,” she said,
“and we will be making music for you.”
So Lir and his people stopped there listening to the music of the swans, and they slept there quietly that night. And Lir rose up early on the morning of the morrow and he made this complaint:—
“It is time to go out from this place.
I do not sleep though I am in my lying down.
To be parted from my dear children,
it is that is tormenting my heart.
“It is a bad net I put over you,
bringing Aoife, daughter of Oilell of Aran,
to the house.
I would never have followed that advice
if I had known what it would bring upon me.
“O Fionnuala, and comely Conn,
O Aodh, O Fiachra of the beautiful arms;
it is not ready I am to go away from you,
from the border of the harbour where you are.”
Then Lir went on to the palace of Bodb Dearg, and there was a welcome before him there; and he got a reproach from Bodb Dearg for not bringing his children along with him.
“My grief!” said Lir.
“It is not I that would not bring my children along with me;
it was Aoife there beyond,
your own foster-child and the sister of their mother,
that put them in the shape of four white swans on Loch Dairbhreach,
in the sight of the whole of the men of Ireland;
but they have their sense with them yet,
and their reason,
and their voice,
and their Irish.”
Bodb Dearg gave a great start when he heard that, and he knew what Lir said was true, and he gave a very sharp reproach to Aoife, and he said:
“This treachery will be worse for yourself in the end, Aoife,
than to the children of Lir.
And what shape would you yourself think worst of being in?” he said.
“I would think worst of being a witch of the air,” she said.
“It is into that shape I will put you now,” said Bodb.
And with that he struck her with a Druid wand,
and she was turned into a witch of the air there and then,
and she went away on the wind in that shape,
and she is in it yet,
and will be in it to the end of life and time.
As to Bodb Dearg and the Tuatha de Danaan they came to the shore of Loch Dairbhreach, and they made their camp there to be listening to the music of the swans.
And the Sons of the Gael used to be coming no less than the Men of Dea to hear them from every part of Ireland, for there never was any music or any delight heard in Ireland to compare with that music of the swans. And they used to be telling stories, and to be talking with the men of Ireland every day, and with their teachers and their fellow-pupils and their friends.
And every night they used to sing very sweet music of the Sidhe;
and every one that heard that music would sleep sound and quiet whatever trouble or long sickness might be on him;
for every one that heard the music of the birds, it is happy and contented he would be after it.
These two gatherings now of the Tuatha de Danaan and of the Sons of the Gael stopped there around Loch Dairbhreach through the length of three hundred years.
And it is then Fionnuala said to her brothers:
“Do you know,” she said,
“we have spent all we have to spend of our time here,
but this one night only.”
And there was great sorrow on the sons of Lir when they heard that,
for they thought it the same as to be living people again,
to be talking with their friends and their companions on Loch Dairbhreach,
in comparison with going on the cold, fretful sea of the Maoil in the north.
And they came early on the morrow to speak with their father and with their foster-father, and they bade them farewell,
and Fionnuala made this complaint:—
“Farewell to you, Bodb Dearg,
the man with whom all knowledge is in pledge.
And farewell to our father along with you,
Lir of the Hill of the White Field.
“The time is come, as I think,
for us to part from you,
O pleasant company; my grief it is not on a visit we are going to you.
“From this day out,
O friends of our heart, our comrades,
it is on the tormented course of the Maoil we will be,
without the voice of any person near us.
“Three hundred years there,
and three hundred years in the bay of the men of Domnann,
it is a pity for the four comely children of Lir,
the salt waves of the sea to be their covering by night.
“O three brothers, with the ruddy faces gone from you,
let them all leave the lake now,
the great troop that loved us,
it is sorrowful our parting is.”
After that complaint they took to flight, lightly, airily,
till they came to Sruth na Maoile between Ireland and Alban. And that was a grief to the men of Ireland, and they gave out an order no swan was to be killed from that out, whatever chance there might be of killing one, all through Ireland.
It was a bad dwelling-place for the children of Lir they to be on Sruth na Maoile. When they saw the wide coast about them, they were filled with cold and with sorrow, and they thought nothing of all they had gone through before, in comparison to what they were going through on that sea.
Now one night while they were there a great storm came on them, and it is what Fionnuala said:
“My dear brothers,” she said,
“it is a pity for us not to be making ready for this night,
for it is certain the storm will separate us from one another.
And let us,” she said,
“settle on some place where we can meet afterwards,
if we are driven from one another in the night.”
“Let us settle,” said the others,
“to meet one another at Carraig na Ron,
the Rock of the Seals, for we all have knowledge of it.”
And when midnight came, the wind came on them with it, and the noise of the waves increased, and the lightning was flashing, and a rough storm came sweeping down, the way the children of Lir were scattered over the great sea, and the wideness of it set them astray, so that no one of them could know what way the others went. But after that storm a great quiet came on the sea, and Fionnuala was alone on Sruth na Maoile; and when she took notice that her brothers were wanting she was lamenting after them greatly, and she made this complaint:—
“It is a pity for me to be alive in the state I am;
it is frozen to my sides my wings are;
it is little that the wind has not broken my heart in my body,
with the loss of Aodh.
“To be three hundred years on Loch Dairbhreach without going into my own shape, it is worse to me the time I am on Sruth na Maoile.
“The three I loved, Och! the three I loved,
that slept under the shelter of my feathers;
till the dead come back to the living I will see them no more for ever.
“It is a pity I to stay after Fiachra, and after Aodh, and after comely Conn, and with no account of them;
my grief I to be here to face every hardship this night.”
She stopped all night there upon the Rock of the Seals until the rising of the sun, looking out over the sea on every side till at last she saw Conn coming to her, his feathers wet through and his head hanging, and her heart gave him a great welcome;
and then Fiachra came wet and perished and worn out, and he could not say a word they could understand with the dint of the cold and the hardship he had gone through.
And Fionnuala put him under her wings, and she said:
“We would be well off now if Aodh would but come to us.”
It was not long after that, they saw Aodh coming, his head dry and his feathers beautiful, and Fionnuala gave him a great welcome, and she put him in under the feathers of her breast, and Fiachra under her right wing and Conn under her left wing, the way she could put her feathers over them all.
“And Och! my brothers,” she said,
“this was a bad night to us,
and it is many of its like are before us from this out.”
They stayed there a long time after that, suffering cold and misery on the Maoil, till at last a night came on them they had never known the like of before, for frost and snow and wind and cold.
And they were crying and lamenting the hardship of their life, and the cold of the night and the greatness of the snow and the hardness of the wind.
And after they had suffered cold to the end of a year, a worse night again came on them, in the middle of winter.
And they were on Carraig na Ron, and the water froze about them, and as they rested on the rock, their feet and their wings and their feathers froze to the rock, the way they were not able to move from it.
And they made such a hard struggle to get away, that they left the skin of their feet and their feathers and the tops of their wings on the rock after them.
“My grief, children of Lir,” said Fionnuala,
“it is bad our state is now,
for we cannot bear the salt water to touch us,
and there are bonds on us not to leave it;
and if the salt water goes into our sores,”
she said, “we will get our death.”
And she made this complaint:—
“It is keening we are to-night;
without feathers to cover our bodies;
it is cold the rough, uneven rocks are under our bare feet.
“It is bad our stepmother was to us the time she played enchantments on us, sending us out like swans upon the sea.
“Our washing place is on the ridge of the bay,
in the foam of flying manes of the sea;
our share of the ale feast is the salt water of the blue tide.
“One daughter and three sons;
it is in the clefts of the rocks we are;
it is on the hard rocks we are, it is a pity the way we are.”
However, they came on to the course of the Maoil again, and the salt water was sharp and rough and bitter to them, but if it was itself, they were not able to avoid it or to get shelter from it.
And they were there by the shore under that hardship till such time as their feathers grew again, and their wings, and till their sores were entirely healed. And then they used to go every day to the shore of Ireland or of Alban, but they had to come back to Sruth na Maoile every night.
Now they came one day to the mouth of the Banna, to the north of Ireland, and they saw a troop of riders, beautiful, of the one colour, with well-trained pure white horses under them, and they travelling the road straight from the south-west.
“Do you know who those riders are, sons of Lir?” said Fionnuala.
“We do not,” they said;
“but it is likely they might be some troop of the Sons of the Gael,
or of the Tuatha de Danaan.”
They moved over closer to the shore then, that they might know who they were, and when the riders saw them they came to meet them until they were able to hold talk together.
And the chief men among them were two sons of Bodb Dearg, Aodh Aithfhiosach, of the quick wits, and Fergus Fithchiollach, of the chess, and a third part of the Riders of the Sidhe along with them, and it was for the swans they had been looking for a long while before that, and when they came together they wished one another a kind and loving welcome.
And the children of Lir asked for news of all the Men of Dea, and above all of Lir, and Bodb Dearg and their people.
“They are well, and they are in the one place together,” said they,
“in your father’s house at Sidhe Fionnachaidh,
using the Feast of Age pleasantly and happily,
and with no uneasiness on them,
only for being without yourselves,
and without knowledge of what happened you
from the day you left Loch Dairbhreach.”
“That has not been the way with us,” said Fionnuala,
“for we have gone through great hardship and uneasiness
and misery on the tides of the sea until this day.”
And she made this complaint:—
“There is delight to-night with the household of Lir!
Plenty of ale with them and of wine,
although it is in a cold dwelling-place
this night are the four children of the king.
“It is without a spot our bedclothes are,
our bodies covered over with curved feathers;
but it is often we were dressed in purple,
and we drinking pleasant mead.
“It is what our food is and our drink,
the white sand and the bitter water of the sea;
it is often we drank mead of hazel-nuts from round four-lipped drinking cups.
“It is what our beds are,
bare rocks out of the power of the waves;
it is often there used to be spread out for us
beds of the breast-feathers of birds.
“Though it is our work now to be
swimming through the frost and through the noise of the waves,
it is often a company of the sons of kings
were riding after us to the Hill of Bodb.
“It is what wasted my strength,
to be going and coming over the current of the Maoil
the way I never was used to,
and never to be in the sunshine on the soft grass.
“Fiachra’s bed and Conn’s bed is
to come under the cover of my wings on the sea.
Aodh has his place under the feathers of my breast,
the four of us side by side.
“The teaching of Manannan without deceit,
the talk of Bodb Dearg on the pleasant ridge;
the voice of Angus, his sweet kisses;
it is by their side I used to be without grief.”
After that the riders went on to Lir’s house, and they told the chief men of the Tuatha de Danaan all the birds had gone through, and the state they were in.
“We have no power over them,” the chief men said,
“but we are glad they are living yet,
for they will get help in the end of time.”
As to the children of Lir, they went back towards their old place in the Maoil, and they stopped there till the time they had to spend in it was spent. And then Fionnuala said:
“The time is come for us to leave this place.
And it is to Irrus Domnann we must go now,”
she said, “after our three hundred years here.
And indeed there will be no rest for us there,
or any standing ground,
or any shelter from the storms.
But since it is time for us to go,
let us set out on the cold wind,
the way we will not go astray.”
So they set out in that way, and left Sruth na Maoile behind them, and went to the point of Irrus Domnann, and there they stopped, and it is a life of misery and a cold life they led there. And one time the sea froze about them that they could not move at all, and the brothers were lamenting, and Fionnuala was comforting them, for she knew there would help come to them in the end.
And they stayed at Irrus Domnann till the time they had to spend there was spent. And then Fionnuala said:
“The time is come for us to go back to Sidhe Fionnachaidh,
where our father is with his household and with all our own people.”
“It pleases us well to hear that,” they said.
So they set out flying through the air lightly till they came to Sidhe Fionnachaidh; and it is how they found the place, empty before them, and nothing in it but green hillocks and thickets of nettles, without a house, without a fire, without a hearthstone. And the four pressed close to one another then, and they gave out three sorrowful cries, and Fionnuala made this complaint:—
“It is a wonder to me this place is,
and it without a house,
without a dwelling-place.
To see it the way it is now, Ochone!
it is bitterness to my heart.
“Without dogs, without hounds for hunting,
without women, without great kings;
we never knew it to be like this when our father was in it.
without drinking in the lighted house;
without young men,
without riders; the way it is to-night is a foretelling of sorrow.
“The people of the place to be as they are now, Ochone!
it is grief to my heart!
It is plain to my mind to-night the lord of the house is not living.
“Och, house where we used to see music and playing and the gathering of people! I think it a great change to see it lonely the way it is to-night.
“The greatness of the hardships we have gone through
going from one wave to another of the sea,
we never heard of the like of them coming on any other person.
“It is seldom this place had its part with grass and bushes;
the man is not living that would know us,
it would be a wonder to him to see us here.”
However, the children of Lir stopped that night in their father’s place and their grandfather’s, where they had been reared, and they were singing very sweet music of the Sidhe. And they rose up early on the morning of the morrow and went to Inis Gluaire, and all the birds of the country gathered near them on Loch na-n Ean, the Lake of the Birds. And they used to go out to feed every day to the far parts of the country, to Inis Geadh and to Accuill, the place Donn, son of Miled, and his people that were drowned were buried, and to all the western islands of Connacht, and they used to go back to Inis Gluaire every night.
It was about that time it happened them to meet with a young man of good race, and his name was Aibric; and he often took notice of the birds, and their singing was sweet to him and he loved them greatly, and they loved him. And it is this young man that told the whole story of all that had happened them, and put it in order.
And the story he told of what happened them in the end is this.
It was after the faith of Christ and blessed Patrick came into Ireland,
that Saint Mochaomhog came to Inis Gluaire.
And the first night he came to the island,
the children of Lir heard the voice of his bell, ringing near them.
And the brothers started up with fright when they heard it
“We do not know,” they said,
“what is that weak, unpleasing voice we hear.”
“That is the voice of the bell of Mochaomhog,” said Fionnuala;
“and it is through that bell,” she said,
“you will be set free from pain and from misery.”
They listened to that music of the bell till the matins were done,
and then they began to sing the low, sweet music of the Sidhe.
And Mochaomhog was listening to them, and he prayed to God to show him who was singing that music, and it was showed to him that the children of Lir were singing it.
And on the morning of the morrow he went forward to the Lake of the Birds, and he saw the swans before him on the lake, and he went down to them at the brink of the shore.
“Are you the children of Lir?” he said.
“We are indeed,” said they.
“I give thanks to God for that,” said he,
“for it is for your sakes I am come to this island beyond any other island,
and let you come to land now,” he said,
“and give your trust to me,
that you may do good deeds and part from your sins.”
They came to the land after that, and they put trust in Mochaomhog, and he brought them to his own dwelling-place, and they used to be hearing Mass with him.
And he got a good smith and bade him make chains of bright silver for them, and he put a chain between Aodh and Fionnuala, and a chain between Conn and Fiachra. And the four of them were raising his heart and gladdening his mind, and no danger and no distress that was on the swans before put any trouble on them now.
Now the king of Connacht at that time was Lairgnen, son of Colman, son of Cobthach, and Deoch, daughter of Finghin, was his wife. And that was the coming together of the Man from the North and the Woman from the South, that Aoife had spoken of.
And the woman heard talk of the birds, and a great desire came on her to get them, and she bade Lairgnen to bring them to her, and he said he would ask them of Mochaomhog.
And she gave her word she would not stop another night with him unless he would bring them to her. And she set out from the house there and then. And Lairgnen sent messengers after her to bring her back, and they did not overtake her till she was at Cill Dun. She went back home with them then, and Lairgnen sent messengers to ask the birds of Mochaomhog, and he did not get them.
There was great anger on Lairgnen then, and he went himself to the place Mochaomhog was, and he asked was it true he had refused him the birds.
“It is true indeed,” said he.
At that Lairgnen rose up, and he took hold of the swans,
and pulled them off the altar, two birds in each hand,
to bring them away to Deoch.
But no sooner had he laid his hand on them than their bird skins fell off,
and what was in their place was three lean,
withered old men and a thin withered old woman, without blood or flesh.
And Lairgnen gave a great start at that, and he went out from the place.
It is then Fionnuala said to Mochaomhog:
“Come and baptize us now, for it is short till our death comes;
and it is certain you do not think worse of parting with us than we do of parting with you. And make our grave afterwards,” she said,
“and lay Conn at my right side and Fiachra on my left side,
and Aodh before my face, between my two arms.
And pray to the God of Heaven,” she said,
“that you may be able to baptize us.”
The children of Lir were baptized then,
and they died and were buried as Fionnuala had desired;
Fiachra and Conn one at each side of her, and Aodh before her face.
And a stone was put over them, and their names were written in Ogham,
and they were keened there, and heaven was gained for their souls.
And that is the fate of the children of Lir so far.
The fascination of what’s difficult
Has dried the sap out of my veins, and rent
Spontaneous joy and natural content
Out of my heart. There’s something ails our colt
That must, as if it had not holy blood
Nor on Olympus leaped from cloud to cloud,
Shiver under the lash, strain, sweat and jolt
As though it dragged road metal. My curse on plays
That have to be set up in fifty ways,
On the day’s war with every knave and dolt,
Theatre business, management of men.
I swear before the dawn comes round again
I’ll find the stable and pull out the bolt.
Yes, said she in the shed
On some conditions.
And I never caring what they were or would be.
Wanting only to stop time for a spell
So I could scream into the sky by way of celebration.
To spin and fizz and spurt and spark and fizz again,
Like a mad lad miming fireworks
For an audience of much applauding angels.
Stack upon stack upon stack
Of standing ovation,
And making a tree laugh
So that everyone around would turn and say –
“We didn’t know that you could laugh”
And he, the tree, replying,
“Yes, well, I can, but never was amused enough before.”
And me then…back to me…going on a roll…
Plucking down clouds from the high horizon,
Arranging them upon my head
To form a fluffy wig of steaming curls.
Using lightening bolts to arc a halo…
And impersonating God,
But altering his voice to make him sound slightly homosexual
And doing a whole gag about him being something of an interior designer
Giving out to the humans for destroying the Earth.
“Goodness gracious me would you look at the state of it?
Yis have the entire place turned upside down??
And I thought I was bad with the flood
But I wasn’t squirting Texas tea all over the shop.
And what did you do with the lovely rainforests?
I had them gorgeous
And where’s me tigers?
Pish- a-wish-wish…pish a wish a wish…
1…2…3…where’s the rest of them?
And who said you could enslave them fellas
Oh…I don’t know…
Sher stop…I can’t turn my back on ye for a minute!”
And then letting on to get very cross
And whacking a super nova across the galaxy…
Scoring an accidental bull’s eye
Into a black hole…
It whooshing back through time…
And extincting all the dinosaurs…
And a gaggle of dead velociraptor ghosts
Shaking their heads in mock disgust…
And me sort of saying “oops”…
Followed by a hope-filled pause…
And everyone laughing again thank goodness.
I could have rearranged some stars
To make a drawing of her there
In the shed,
Sitting on her step-dad’s lawnmower.
But instead I…
In as much as that was manageable…
Though ecstasy surely snuck out somehow,
Probably via the eyes
And my unstoppable grin.
“You have not heard the conditions yet,” she chided.
But it did not matter what they were…
For there was nothing or nothing or nothing or nothing
I would not do if she would agree to be my girlfriend.
” One…You can’t tell anyone.
Two… You are not allowed to kiss or hug or ever touch me.
Three… I can go with other boys if I want to.”
I was twelve years old,
And seeing as she moved away that summer
Without a word about our separation,
And I have never since done aught to beak up our agreement…
She is still my girlfriend.
The most long lasting
That I have known…
Which is also a little depressing.
Under white eyelids
The dreams come and go,
Kiss her on her rosy mouth,
And wake her so.
Under white eyelids
The dreams are all done,
Fold her hands across her breast—
Let her sleep on.
As a white candle
In a holy place,
So is the beauty
Of an aged face.
As the spent radiance
Of the winter sun,
So is a woman
With her travail done,
Her brood gone from her,
And her thoughts as still
As the waters
Under a ruined mill.