Classic Poem

The Prophecy of the saints has come to pass

The prophecy of the saints has come to pass — the nobles of Fodla will be the better for it; it is not long till their dissensions are healed — the soft-earthed land of Fal will be saved. For a long time until he came there was doubt about two thirds of what they prophesied; believe the early prophetic visions — they have not been shown to be false at all. Da Thi did not believe what Finnean predicted, that Fodla would be in the possession of the Foreigners — a deed he did not conceal; the Foreigners coming near the Irish, that was another jurisdiction that was not expected. Bearchan through the noble prophetic vision told of it long ago — heavy the shower — a pillar would be built by the side of Teamhair; from it Aodh Eanghach would derive. You are Aodh Eanghach of the island of the Irish, who will now rule Ireland of noble fame; as the Irish are at the calling of your name, so is Banbha joyful at your name also. You are he whom Bearchan prophesied in the prophetic vision through the words of God; you are he whom Colum Cille's mouth promised; it was a weighty matter to us because of him. Comhghall of Beannchar, Baoithin of Airteach were announcing you, O hair of the curls; I am not certain, O Aodh, of any saint who, when proclaiming you, did not promise that Fodla would be subject to you. Like your father at your rising in the morning is the crown of your head and your hair is curly; not rare in your beauteous top are yellow tresses: the comeliness of every bogberry is yours. The Kindred of Conall, the province of Almha, the nobles of Connaught who obey your thick tresses — they are princes who buy poems for a price — are a sufficiently noble mixture. It is a mixture of mead with wine, the mixing of the Connachta with the Sons of Niall; whoever is related to that stock has declared their very excellence. The nobles of Mumha, the goodly men of the Connachta, the progeny of Brian from white Magh Aine and from yew-rich Cliu Maighe beyond, are a bright triumphal band (?) about your cheek like berries. With the Sons of Murchadh, warriors of Fodla, about you, you are more able to ravage the land; the hosts from the south from Nas Laighean, only heroes derived from them in the south. Lasairfhiona, daughter of Cathal Croibhdhearg, a woman whose utterances have not been rebutted wherever she has been wont to be, stands behind you; Mor Mumhan was the lady's mother. The daughter of the son of Murchadh was the mother of Mor Mumhan of the stately foot; her glowing beauty rendered the snow impermanent; everyone was wont to come to her house. The princes of Cuala of the jewel-studded cups will go before you as guides through Almha; readily can they be related to the prophecies — the Laighin owe you assistance. The men of Mumha, to the glory of the Irish, will side with you when the day is fiercest; you will come with the Munstermen to the court of Macha and you will go to visit Luimneach with them. This is the most powerful reason that the Irish gave universal love to your skin like lime — a while in your company is a wonderful time for a person — the total excellence of your nature, O Aodh. I shall not perceive, O Aodh ├ô Domhnaill, when I come into your court, that you fail to supply my wants; very different from base gold is what I receive; it is sufficient for me to commend myself to you. Worthy of Conn is the ordering of your kingdom, O blue-eyed king of Sliabh Fuaid; one of your distinguishing marks, O descendant of Cathal, is the prosperity of the country because of you. Earth and sea, moon and sun welcome your cheek like the rose; the clouds of the firmament announce you, the pale pools of Fodla also. Wondrous the joy shown by the waters of Fodla to the descendant of Conall from Carn Fraoich; every mountain stream is almost mute; the warmth of the sun has killed the wind. Every grove has reddened its berries; the wood bends to calm weather; on the hazels, the blackthorns and the brambles their fruits break forth from the heavy jutting bough. Each oak-bough has bent; the clusters of nuts of every hazel, that has not shed its fruit, have split with ripeness; the crop of every apple-tree has burst forth; the fruit of the trees of Banbha is not slight. Every tree, that is green with the autumn sun, of the woods of Banbha, to whom your name is sweet, many from the high oaks of these woods are the drops bursting forth from their cells of honey. When you are made king, O king of Fodla, all the better for Banbha will be the improvement she has made, that has brought favour upon church cells and laity; yours will be the wealth of the territory of the household of Tuathal. Yours will be the men of Munster among the Connachta; about the courts of stone they practise battle; fiery redness caused by them in the colour of the grey stones makes the stone turn to a flaming sea. Yours are the Kindred of Conall and the assistance of the Irish; you know the Foreigners oppose you; to press against you with foreign battle is grim for the white, high castles of limestone. It would be wisdom on the part of the Foreigners of Ireland to sue you for peace from now on; when you have dealt with the Foreigners, you will raze the courts of stone to their very floors. How can it maintain the tribute of the Irish — the attack of the Foreigners is no mean oppression — without causing you reproach, O Aodh ├ô Domhnaill? Do not trust repose from the butt of your weapon. O Aodh, descendant of ├ëigneachan of Uisneach, no troop dares to attack you from the rear; no-one thinks to attack you from the hills; it is not difficult for them to be afraid of you. Many now are the marks of a spear — huge in a breastplate — that hammers could not repair; remarkable I find the length of your spear, the smoothness of its head and the width of its shaft. You are the mightiest man that draws a bow of all who are wont to be in battle at the scattering of showers of arrows; when your spear has been struck into your foe, the end of its shaft cannot be seen protruding from him. O Aodh, son of Domhnall ├ô Domhnaill, make a fort above Loch Ri; no superfluous matter that your kingdom is at peace: it is the guarantee of good weather rather than rain.EnglishGiolla Brighde Mac Con Midhe