Cormac

  “Into the woods I went a-listening,
  I was a gazer when stars were glistening;
  Blind when secrets were plain to guess;
  A silent one in the wilderness;
  I was talkative with the many,
  Yet, in the mead-hall, milder than any;
  I was stern amid battle cries;
  I was gentle towards allies;
  I was a doctor unto the sick;
  On the feeble I laid no stick. 
  Not close lest burdensome I should be;
  Though wise not given to arrogancy. 
  I promised little, though lavish of gift;
  I was not reckless though I was swift;
  Young, I never derided the old;
  And never boasted though I was bold;
  Of an absent one no ill would I tell;
  I would not reproach, though I praised full well;
  I never would ask but ever would give,
  For a kingly life I craved to live!”

THE WORST WAY OF PLEADING

  Carbery

  “O Cormac Mac Art, of Wisdom exceeding,
  What is the evilest way of pleading?”
  Said Cormac:  “Not hard to tell! 
  Against knowledge contending;
  Without proofs, pretending;
  In bad language escaping;
  A style stiff and scraping;
  Speech mean and muttering,
  Hair-splitting and stuttering;
  Uncertain proofs devising;
  Authorities despising;
  Scorning custom’s reading;
  Confusing all your pleading;
  To madness a mob to be leading;
  With the shout of a strumpet
  Blowing one’s own trumpet.”

KING CORMAC’S WORST ENEMY

  “O Cormac Mac Art, of your enemies’ garrison,
  Who is the worst for your witty comparison?”
      Said Cormac:  “Not hard to tell! 
  A man with a satirist’s nameless audacity;
  A man with a slave-woman’s shameless pugnacity;
  One with a dirty dog’s careless up-bound,
  The conscience thereto of a ravening hound. 
  Like a stately noble he answers all speakers
  From a memory full as a Chronicle-maker’s,
  With the suave behaviour of Abbot or Prior,
  Yet the blasphemous tongue of a horse-thief liar
  And he wise as false in every grey hair,
  Violent, garrulous, devil-may-care. 
  When he cries, ‘The case is settled and over!’
  Though you were a saint, I swear you would swear!”

IRISH TRIADS

(By an unknown Author of the ninth century)

  Three signs whereby to mark a man of vice
  Are hatred, bitterness, and avarice.

  Three graceless sisters in the bond of unity
  Are lightness, flightiness, and importunity.

  Three clouds, the most obscuring Wisdom’s glance,
  Forgetfulness, half-knowledge, ignorance.

  Three savage sisters sharpening life’s distress,
  Foul Blasphemy, Foul Strife, Foul-mouthedness.

  Three services the worst for human hands,
  A vile Lord’s, a vile Lady’s, a vile Land’s.