Classic Poem

Pay heed to me, O king of the Irish; keep your flushed face to me — not to utter foreign speech, O stately-browed, bright, pale, blue-eyed one. O prince of Banbha, little would I have believed that I would be cowed by your gentle face; small fault would I find with your acknowledgment of me, if only I could myself look upon the shape of your countenance. He is no friend from whomever you heard a cause of reproach to your freckled cheek; it is fast-travelling news, O prop of Conall, that someone slandered me to you before I could reach you. O king, do not give judgment on one side of the story until I speak to your soft cheek; coming to your house I shall be in a strong position, if the stories of the two of us get to you. Is it not what was told about me, O chief of Conall — hard the deed — that I came to the ford to detain you, that the others were inciting you into the gap? I encouraged no-one, O chief of Teamhair, I threw no weapon — I would not know how — it would be presage of bloodshed to me, O Domhnall, to go behind a battle in order to urge it on. Your equerry, O champion of Tuaim, brought hatred of me to your dark brow; evil the love-herb on the part of your servant, the ugly falsehood that would be a claw against me. O dragon of Fal, unhappy is the man who would listen to the voice of an evil person rather than to a man like me; if I were to swear it by yellowing croziers, rather should I swear by your hand. By your hand, O lion of Bearnas, I do not like lying words; I did not myself perpetrate vicious calumny against your gentle, slender, dark, narrow brow. Unhappy the man, O you of the healing hair, who would listen to the voice of hatred to my detriment; when did I hate you so as to slander you, since I did not go dissatisfied from you any day? A son or a foster-son would not go from you when you bestow bounty, a brother would not go from your curly, yellow, soft tresses at the time of largesse before others had received their share. You gave to my poet-band a circuit of your territory, you gave your honour, O chief of Luan; you gave into my hand, O prince of Bearta, the flower of the sleek herd of your kine. You gave your raiment and your silver, O lord of Mis; it is not I that does not understand; good every judgment you gave to your princes; you gave a horse for services to you. You gave your love, O king of Teamhair, you gave sanctuary, you gave protection; my drinking away your substance like a lover, did not deprive me of the reward for my poetry. Like the child and the woman who nurses him is my state, O hair of the furrows; were I in displeasure with your fair, wavy tresses, I would go before you in person. Why would I create a harmful situation between you and the host of Sliabh Ruaidh? Hardly would my rewards be more sizeable; greater all the wealth I got from you. I told the Kindred of Eoghan that to fight you would be a wretched arrangement; you should shun easy victories; their outcome is no disgrace to us. The people I would send against you, O hero of Loch Ce, would be enemies of mine; I was only trying to turn the tide of battle; I am a friend of the host of Macha. It would be to your advantage, O king of the Irish, were I to incite anyone against your slender body; it would be a triumph to you, O prop of Macha, anyone's urging battle against you. Easy for you, O cheek like embers, that the troop should seize your slender weapons; no-one gave rein eagerly to his horse against you, who would not later be before you in flight. To go in battle-formation against your great squadrons, O son of Domhnall, would not be a pleasant encounter; is it not a matter of indifference to mention it, O prince of Abhaidh, that it is not good for an army to confront you? Magnificent I thought by the Modharn green pennant and white horse; O king of Magh Tuama, about you there was a handsome, slender, protruding thicket of spears. Though wild, not wild in comparison with your hosts is the stream of the Modharn upon Magh Garbh nor the great Finn, for all the size of its cleaving waves; what are your weapons but a host of savage beasts? To acquire wealth I would sell praise of your brown eyebrow, of your white palm; I need the price of your praise; it is right to take issue with your crimson cheek. The praise of a high king is what is due to your young face, to your stately brow; not worse for us is the extent of your praise, O king; the danger is to tell lies. To praise your cheeks as red as fire, a bout of praising your curly eyebrows, to praise the colour of your brown, wavy hair — no pain will come upon me from it. Why should a poem upon the colour of your hair or your countenance declare that the Father who ordained heaven acted rightly, if He avenges it upon a man? I gave two poems, O king of the Irish, to your noble face — praise be to you; the third poem that I brought you from the south was not a poem to be rewarded with a chess-set, O perpetually slender, soft one. You are the hero with the finest mother from Magh Cuar to Carn ├ì Neid; you are the most generous, you have the best father, you are the most eager who goes into battle. It is your clemency, O hero of Tuaim, that merits the milk of cows every day; your judgments, O king of the Sons of Conall, bring clusters of nuts to the forest. O descendant of Domhnall from Dun Balair, you won the victory of every battle; harsh your smiting, O scald-crow of Cabha, that made narrow weapons bend.