Classic Poem

The kingdom of Conaire belongs to the Sons of Niall; outstanding in Ireland, the goodly realm of Partholon's dwelling-place, is the possession of her fair, smooth fields. The son of Eidirsgeal — it was the subject of good tidings — improved Ireland so that there was no stealing, no violence in her and no ugly, premeditated fighting. There was no conflict about Teamhair of the three Fionns, no dissension in the land of Ireland, no rebuke to the sweetness of mead-feasts, no attacking of Inis ├ëireamhoin. There was no bay that lacked pale fish, no slope that was not full of fruit, no drought by the edge of any plain, no heavy rain except the shower of Maytime. There was no wind over the top of her woods to move the rich-earthed fields, no mist through Fodla of the feasts, no battle being announced to chieftains. There was no lack of nuts upon branching hazel-trees, no farmer with less than a hundred cows, no jealousy by man for living man; there was a banquet in every house around Teamhair. There was no Foreigner in all of Ireland, no watching, no keeping lookout; Ireland of Conaire was without crime: the elite of the Irish were her security. The same kingdom belongs to the Sons of Niall; the Gaoidhil of Ireland are under one rule; the surface of Ireland of Ughaine is a level plain without any deficiency. Peace and fair weather have come to the forests of Banbha, base and top; short-lived is every hazel covered in nuts; harmless the wave upon its shore. Fodla of the smooth, level woods has turned her favour to the Sons of Niall; their generosity has reached her entire length; Ireland has come into her rightful place. Her corn has ripened, her false judgments have been corrected; the land of sappy Fodla is a full pool; it has been announced that she wins the prize. The three sons of Niall, to whom oaths are declared, are three future high kings of Ireland, three champions eager to join battle, three guides who go before strangers. They are the three torches of valour of the Irish, three battalions that have not been triumphed over, three hawks from Sliabh Uire that are delightful with respect to their royal pedigree. They are three guardians with sharp-tipped spears, three sons of Cainte Crithirbheal, like the three Finn Eamhna from Eamhain that were the leaders of champions. The three sons of Niall of mighty steps are three waves around Ireland * * * * * * * * * * *