THE SHAVING OF MURDOCH

(From the Early Irish)

(By Muiredach O’Daly, late twelfth century, when he and Cathal More of the Red Hand, King of Connaught, entered the monastic life together.)

  Murdoch, whet thy razor’s edge,
    Our crowns to pledge to Heaven’s Ardrigh! 
  Vow we now our hair fine-tressed
    To the Blessed Trinity!

  Now my head I shear to Mary;
    ’Tis a true heart’s very due. 
  Shapely, soft-eyed Chieftain now
    Shear thy brow to Mary, too!

  Seldom on thy head, fair Chief,
    Hath a barbing-knife been plied;
  Oft the fairest of Princesses
    Combed her tresses at thy side.

  Whensoever we did bathe,
    We found no scathe, yourself and I,
  With Brian of the well-curled locks,
    From hidden rocks and currents wry.

  And most I mind what once befell
    Beside the well of fair Boru—­
  I swam a race with Ua Chais
    The icy flood of Fergus through.

  When hand to hand the bank we reached,
    Swift foot to foot we stretched again,
  Till Duncan Cairbre, Chief of Chiefs,
    Gave us three knives—­not now in vain.

  No other blades such temper have;
    Then, Murdoch, shave with easy art! 
  Whet, Cathal of the Wine Red Hand,
    Thy Victor brand, in peaceful part!

  Then our shorn heads from weather wild
    Shield, Daughter mild of Joachim! 
  Preserve us from the sun’s fierce power,
    Mary, soft Flower of Jesse’s Stem!

ON THE FLIGHTINESS OF THOUGHT

(A tenth-century poem.  See Eriu, vol. iii, p. 13)

  Shame upon my thoughts, O shame! 
    How they fly in order broken,
  Therefore much I fear for blame
    When the Trump of Doom has spoken.

  At my psalms, they oft are set
    On a path the Fiend must pave them;
  Evermore, with fash and fret,
    In God’s sight they misbehave them.

  Through contending crowds they fleet,
    Companies of wanton women,
  Silent wood or strident street,
    Swifter than the breezes skimming.

  Now through paths of loveliness,
    Now through ranks of shameful riot,
  Onward evermore they press,
    Fledged with folly and disquiet.

  O’er the Ocean’s sounding deep
    Now they flash like fiery levin;
  Now at one vast bound they leap
    Up from earth into the Heaven.

  Thus afar and near they roam
    On their race of idle folly;
  Till at last to reason’s home
    They return right melancholy.

  Would you bind them wrist to wrist—­
    Foot to foot the truants shackle,
  From your toils away they twist
    Into air with giddy cackle.

  Crack of whip or edge of steel
    Cannot hold them in your keeping;
  With the wriggle of an eel
   From your grasp they still go leaping.