led cups,
Three hundred steeds and bridles
In this famous fort of noble shape--
Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath!

After Malachy and sweet Brian,[25]
And Murchad[26] that was never weak in hurdled battle,
My heart has been left without a leap of vigour,
Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath!

Ochone! I am the wretched phantom,
Small are my wages since the three are gone.
Greater than my own ruin is my cause of lament,
Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath!

Och! 'tis I that am the body without head,
I, Mac Coisse, chief of all poets--
Now that my skill and my vigour are gone,
Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 23: King of Ireland. He died in 1022.]

[Footnote 24: The Fort of the Shields, on Lough Ennel, Co. Westmeath.]

[Footnote 25: _i.e._ Brian Boru, who had fallen in 1014 in the battle of
Clontarf.]

[Footnote 26: Brian's son, fallen at Clontarf.]

MISCELLANEOUS

THE MONK AND HIS PET CAT

I and my white Pangur
Have each his special art:
His mind is set on hunting mice,
Mine is upon my special craft.

I love to rest--better than any fame!--
With close study at my little book:
White Pangur does not envy me:
He loves his childish play.

When in our house we two are all alone--
A tale without tedium!
We have--sport never-ending!
Something to exercise our wit.

At times by feats of derring-do
A mouse sticks in his net,
While into my net there drops
A difficult problem of hard meaning.

He points his full shining eye
Against the fence of the wall:
I point my clear though feeble eye
Against the keenness of science.

He rejoices with quick leaps
When in his sharp claw sticks a mouse:
I too rejoice when I have grasped
A problem difficult and dearly loved.

Though we are thus at all times,
Neither hinders the other,
Each of us pleased with his own art
Amuses himself alone.

He is a master of the work
Which every day he does:
While I am at my own work
To bring difficulty to clearness.

COLUM CILLE'S GREETING TO IRELAND

Delightful to be on the Hill of Howth
Before going over the white-haired sea:
The dashing of the wave against its face,
The bareness of its shores and of its border.

Delightful to be on the Hill of Howth
After coming over the white-bosomed sea;
To be rowing one