Classic Poem

I left behind with Aodh something I forgot; let us go to visit him again; let us hasten the return of our steps to the chieftain of the brown-greaved hosts of Beirre. As I make my way forward with my back to ├ô Conchobhair, my heart is ever journeying from my house back behind me to Cruachain. Very early I turn back to the fairy hostel of the scion of Bearnas; were I to be smitten by a desire for drink, my journey would not be away. I left something forgotten with the stately-eyed king of Carn Fraoich; early next day I make haste to return, to see the young chief of Cnucha whom I left behind me. As I go to his house so often, I am ashamed not to have some cause; in the house of the melodious, mild descendant of slender Blod, I forgot my needle. Do you know who put the rushes from the beds? My brooch fell from me there, yonder in the presence of the high king. Coming to his house the third time without an excuse would have been unseemly: I left a glove — that was suficient — it is not pleasant to return without a pretext. It is a journey that I will find easy, to return to the slender oak of Sodhan from the eastern part of Ireland for the sake of a spancel-ring. If I were to drink French wine with another king away from Aodh, the water of fair Inis Fail would be sweeter to me at his elbow. The sun whitens the hue of the gilly-flowers; many are the loving friendships; the blossom of the black-branched boughs is white; every heart is full of love for Aodh. I bring a poem every year to curly-haired Aodh of white Liamhain; as I carry off with me its price in cattle, immediately after it a poem is required. The way the son of Feidhlimidh, the prince of Iomghan, demands poems from me is like drinking a feast all together while another malt is being mashed. It would be right, O Connachta, for the Sons of Colman always to be calling you to account; you are the better for being made to bend; you are not like a fleeting sunbeam in winter. In Connaught of Coirrshliabh one goes from one purple wine to another; the return journey to seek the generous, curly one of Cruachain is difficult for me. I was given cause to forget when I reached the king of Ceanannas: I drank at the best of feasts there; I remembered neither wife nor children. It was on Midsummer's day that I saw in the west reaping and ploughing together, a slope of rush-blossom full of milk hard by the rath of Cruachain of Connaught. I saw Aodh's drinking-house full of curved, wrought drinking-horns — no cause of great fame but rather lasting love — the drinking-feast of ├ô Conchobhair. The steward used to allow me into the ordering of the drinking-feast of Cruachain; a fist above the company one could see O Neill's horn, the horn of ├ô Cathain. The horn of Toirdhealbhach is there — great my omission not to have seen it — the horn he brought from Siodh Meadha which he took from the destructive king of Ceara. My omission it was not to have seen the two golden cups with their bright ornamentation; it was a journey no man of one poem should have made — I saw there the harness from Blar Aodhain. I would have to come from my house to seee Cathal's standard, the extent of its awfulness and its valour, its beauty and its prowess. Cathal Croibhdhearg with the hound (i.e. the standard) routed Cathal Carrach; its attack in the west by which Cathal fell in Coirrshliabh was a great destruction. It was she, an ensign-hound and yet no hound, that was stretched along a spear by Aodh when he attacked Sligeach — doomed was the place where (?) she fell. Upon my way I found Sligheach broken and disfigured, without timbered dwelling, without door-valves — nothing but utterly empty courts. It was a great oversight on my part not to see the grave of the son of Einri and that of noble, fair Cathal Croibhdhearg and the amount of castles he destroyed in his anger.