Old Celtic Romances Part 7

My three little brothers I never shall see Till the dead shall arise from the tomb: How I sheltered them oft with my wings and my breast, And I soothed their sorrows and lulled them to rest, As the night fell around us in gloom!

Ah, where are my brothers, and why have I lived, This last worst affliction to know?

What now is there left but a life of despair?-- For alas! I am able no longer to bear This heart-breaking anguish and woe.[XXII.]

Soon after this she looked again over the sea, and she saw Conn coming towards the rock, with his head drooping, and his feathers all drenched with the salt spray; and she welcomed him with joyful heart.

Not long after, Ficra appeared, but he was so faint with wet and cold and hards.h.i.+p, that he was scarce able to reach the place where Finola and Conn were standing; and when they spoke to him he could not speak one word in return. So Finola placed the two under her wings, and she said--

"If Aed were here now, all would be happy with us."

In a little time they saw Aed coming towards them, with head erect and feathers all dry and radiant and Finola gave him a joyful welcome. She then placed him under the feathers of her breast, while Conn and Ficra remained under her wings; and she said to them--

"My dear brothers, though ye may think this night very bad, we shall have many like it from this time forth."

So they continued for a long time on the Sea of Moyle, suffering hards.h.i.+ps of every kind, till one winter night came upon them, of great wind and of snow and frost so severe, that nothing they ever before suffered could be compared to the misery of that night. And Finola uttered these words--

Our life is a life of woe; No shelter or rest we find: How bitterly drives the snow; How cold is this wintry wind!

From the icy spray of the sea, From the wind of the bleak north east, I shelter my brothers three, Under my wings and breast.

Our stepmother sent us here, And misery well we know:-- In cold and hunger and fear; Our life is a life of woe!

Another year pa.s.sed away on the Sea of Moyle; and one night in January, a dreadful frost came down on the earth and sea, so that the waters were frozen into a solid floor of ice all round them. The swans remained on Carricknarone all night, and their feet and their wings were frozen to the icy surface, so that they had to strive hard to move from their places in the morning; and they left the skin of their feet, the quills of their wings, and the feathers of their b.r.e.a.s.t.s clinging to the rock.

"Sad is our condition this night, my beloved brothers," said Finola, "for we are forbidden to leave the Sea of Moyle; and yet we cannot bear the salt water, for when it enters our wounds, I fear we shall die of pain."

And she spoke this lay--

Our fate is mournful here to-day; Our bodies bare and chill, Drenched by the bitter, briny spray, And torn on this rocky hill!

Cruel our stepmother's jealous heart That banished us from home; Transformed to swans by magic art, To swim the ocean foam.

This bleak and snowy winter day, Our bath is the ocean wide; In thirsty summer's burning ray, Our drink the briny tide.

And here 'mid rugged rocks we dwell, In this tempestuous bay; Four children bound by magic spell;-- Our fate is sad to-day!

They were, however, forced to swim out on the stream of Moyle, all wounded and torn as they were; for though the brine was sharp and bitter, they were not able to avoid it. They stayed as near the coast as they could, till after a long time the feathers of their b.r.e.a.s.t.s and wings grew again, and their wounds were healed.

After this they lived on for a great number of years, sometimes visiting the sh.o.r.es of Erin, and sometimes the headlands of Alban. But they always returned to the sea-stream of Moyle, for it was destined to be their home till the end of three hundred years.

One day they came to the mouth of the Bann, on the north coast of Erin, and looking inland, they saw a stately troop of hors.e.m.e.n approaching directly from the south-west. They were mounted on white steeds, and clad in bright-coloured garments, and as they wound towards the sh.o.r.e their arms glittered in the sun.

"Do ye know yonder cavalcade?" said Finola to her brothers.

"We know them not," they replied; "but it is likely they are a party of the Milesians, or perchance a troop of our own people, the Dedannans."

They swam towards the sh.o.r.e, to find out who the strangers were; and the cavalcade on their part, when they saw the swans, knew them at once, and moved towards them till they were within speaking distance.

Now these were a party of the Dedannans; and the chiefs who commanded them were the two sons of Bove Derg, the Dedannan king, namely, Aed the Keen-witted, and Fergus the Chess-player, with a third part of the Fairy Host.[XXIII.] They had been for a long time searching for the children of Lir along the northern sh.o.r.es of Erin, and now that they had found them, they were joyful; and they and the swans greeted each other with tender expressions of friends.h.i.+p and love. The children of Lir inquired after the Dedannans, and particularly after their father Lir, and Bove Derg, and all the rest of their friends and acquaintances.

"They are all well," replied the chiefs; "and they and the Dedannans in general are now gathered together in the house of your father, at Shee Finnaha, celebrating the Feast of Age,[2] pleasantly and agreeably.

Their happiness would indeed be complete, only that you are not with them, and that they know not where you have been since you left Lake Darvra."

"Miserable has been our life since that day," said Finola; "and no tongue can tell the suffering and sorrow we have endured on the Sea of Moyle."

And she chanted these words--

Ah, happy is Lir's bright home to-day, With mead and music and poet's lay: But gloomy and cold his children's home, For ever tossed on the briny foam.

Our wreathed feathers are thin and light When the wind blows keen through the wintry night: Yet oft we were robed, long, long ago, In purple mantles and furs of snow.

On Moyle's bleak current our food and wine Are sandy sea-weed and bitter brine: Yet oft we feasted in days of old, And hazel-mead drank from cups of gold.

Our beds are rocks in the dripping caves; Our lullaby song the roar of the waves: But soft rich couches once we pressed, And harpers lulled us each night to rest.

Lonely we swim on the billowy main, Through frost and snow, through storm and rain: Alas for the days when round us moved The chiefs and princes and friends we loved!

My little twin brothers beneath my wings Lie close when the north wind bitterly stings, And Aed close nestles before my breast; Thus side by side through the night we rest.

Our father's fond kisses, Bove Derg's embrace, The light of Mannanan's[1] G.o.dlike face, The love of Angus[1]--all, all are o'er; And we live on the billows for evermore!

After this they bade each other farewell, for it was not permitted to the children of Lir to remain away from the stream of Moyle. As soon as they had parted, the Fairy Cavalcade returned to Shee Finnaha, where they related to the Dedannan chiefs all that had pa.s.sed, and described the condition of the children of Lir. And the chiefs answered--

"It is not in our power to help them; but we are glad that they are living; and we know that in the end the enchantment will be broken, and that they will be freed from their sufferings."

As to the children of Lir, they returned to their home on the Sea of Moyle, and there they remained till they had fulfilled their term of years.

FOOTNOTES:

[XXII.] Many of these old poems begin and end with the same line or couplet.

[XXIII.] Fairy host; _i.e._ the Dedannans. (See note 1 at the end of the book.)

CHAPTER VI.

THE FOUR WHITE SWANS ON THE WESTERN SEA.

And when their three hundred years were ended, Finola said to her brothers--

"It is time for us to leave this place, for our period here has come to an end."

The hour has come; the hour has come; Three hundred years have pa.s.sed: We leave this bleak and gloomy home, And we fly to the west at last!

We leave for ever the stream of Moyle; On the clear, cold wind we go; Three hundred years round Glora's isle, Where wintry tempests blow!