'His Cross is our saving herb...'

September 14 is the Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, and to mark the feast below is a short excerpt from an Irish bardic poem translated by Irish Jesuit, Father Lambert Mc Kenna (1870-1956):

His Cross is our saving herb, our flower of blessing, our bond of perfect peace; it is the daily protection of Eve's race, the seal of our covenant, the roof above us.

L. McKenna, Some Irish Bardic Poems, Studies: An Irish Quarterly Review Vol. 24, No. 94 (June 1935), pp. 313-318.

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Saint Fiachra and Kilfera by the Nore

August 30 is the feast of Saint Fiachre of Brieul. In the 1904 poem below, Alice Esmonde suggests that even in his French exile Saint Fiachra never quite forgets another quiet hermitage - that of Kilfera by the Nore in Ireland. The poem is typical of the many which were published on native saints in popular Catholic magazines in Ireland at this time, it is not great literature just a sentimentally naive tribute to the holy man:

Saint Fiacre

On a slope beside the Norey
St. Fiacre built his cell,
Raised his Church and by the door
Found and blessed his holy well.
In the summer near the gloaming,
Should your footsteps there go roaming,
You would think that down he passes,
While a hush comes, in the air,
Yon could hear the tender grasses
Rustling as he knelt in prayer,
For he lived in days of yore
At Kilfera by the Nore.

Still the spot is calm and fair,
Tho' decayed is his sweet cell,
And he's half forgotten there,
By the banks he loved so well.
But the faithful river stealing,
When the years brought men less feeling,
By the Hermitage once holy,
'Mid a silence most profound,
Seems to sigh and whisper slowly.
All around is sacred ground —
For Fiacre years before
Blessed Kilfera by the Nore.

Did he hold the place so dear
That the Lord who watched above
Filled his heart with tender fear,
Exiled him with jealous love?
Solitude he sought more lasting,
Calmer days for prayer and fasting,
And across the parting ocean,
At Breuil in alien land,
He, with tears and deep emotion,
Built a cell with his own hand:
Still he loved as years before
Lone Kilfera by the Nore.

Sorrows came and centuries,
But his Irish heart has rest
At Breuil beside the trees,
And the flowers he once loved best—
Till the Angel's trumpet calls him,
While the joy of Heaven enthralls him,
Where a thousand years go faster
Than the moments of a day,
In the Presence of the Master
Who has wiped all tears away.
Still we hope he watches o'er
Calm Kilfera by the Nore.

Alice Esmonde

The Irish Monthly, Volume 32 (1904),662-3

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The Legend of Saint Catherine of Alexandria

November 25 is the feast of Saint Catherine of Alexandria, one of the great eastern female martyrs. The story of Saint Catherine's martyrdom was immensely popular in the medieval west and includes a fifteenth-century Irish version. In 2014 I posted a translation of a medieval Irish poem in honour of Saint Catherine here, below is a later poetic offering by a nineteenth-century Irish woman, Ellen O'Connell Fitzsimmon. I hadn't heard of the author before but learnt here that she was actually a daughter of the Liberator himself, Daniel O'Connell. Our poetess tells us in the introduction to her work that she was inspired by a fresco in Saint Clement's Basilica in Rome to give her own version of Saint Catherine's martyrdom:

THE LEGEND OF ST. CATHERINE OF ALEXANDRIA.

By Ellen Fitzsimon (born O'Connell).

INTRODUCTION.

BENEATH Saint Clement's venerated dome,

Most perfect of the Basilics of Rome,

(Where a good Irish friar hath done more

Than all the rich and pious had before

In many centuries), there met my sight

A fresco painting, not long given to light,

The which a noble, simple story told

Of triumph by Saint Catherine won of old

Against the heathen sages, and the day

When for the Christian Faith she gave her life away.

Recalling this, and many a glorious feat

Of that great Saint, her legend I repeat.

Laying my homage humbly at her feet.

THE LEGEND.

In Alexandria, centuries ago,

Amid a circle of philosophers.

Of solemn sages, throughout Egypt famed.

With others from the walls of palmy Rome,

And Greece's classic clime, sate Catherine,

A Christian virgin, stately, fair, and young.

Descended of a high Imperial race.

And further graced with genius' golden gifts.

Calmly she sate, and disputation held

With all those mighty masters of the mind.

Alike on sciences and curious arts,

On all thy varied forms. Philosophy!

And higher still. Theology divine.

In admiration, mixed with awe, the crowd

Of listeners hung upon her silvery tones.

The while with wondrous eloquence she spake

The might, the majesty of Heaven's ways

Revealed to man ! refuting thoroughly

All arguments, however plausible,

By her opponents brought forth to support

The worn-out faith on fable solely founded.

On fable, feeble, foolish, and unclean!

At length the pseudo-sages — struggling still

Against conviction, nor content to own

Defeat, except by silence — suddenly

Broke up the assembly, on some poor pretence.

And each departed, feeling envious hate

Invade his inmost soul against Catherine,

Who thus had humbled them before the people.

She meantime to her very palace doors

Was by the shouting citizens attended

As in a triumph. Then, the crowd once gone,

She sought her secret cell, to purity.

To constant faith, true love, and hope divine.

Kept sacred. There, before the crucifix

Kneeling, she cried, “To Thee, to Thee, O Lord,

The glory and the praise, that Thou hast lent

Thy handmaid power to triumph in Thy name”.

Not many days now passed, ere to the city

Came Maximin, the tyrant Emperor.

Soon summoned to his court were all the nobles,

And all the brave, the youthful and the fair ;

Amongst them Catherine, as a kinswoman

Of the Imperial Caesar, held high place,

No less than for her bearing and her genius.

Scarce had the Emperor beheld the maid

When love (as fierce as hate) possessed his soul!

Oh, no! not love, but passion, such as fills

The brindled panther s panting breast, for her

His bright-eyed, cruel co-mate of the woods !

All unaccustomed, save to swift success,

He signified his feelings, doubting not

Of joyful acceptation, Catherine,

Without or exultation or disdain.

Declined his suit. Fired fourfold by repulse,

He, who at first had nothing meant in honour.

Now cried, " Thou surely dost not understand

That Caesar woos thee for his bride, his Empress"

Still calm, unmoved, the maid rejected him;

For she had bound herself by secret vow

The bride of Heaven alone, nor would resign

For earthly throne the virgin's privilege

To follow in the path the Lamb doth tread.

Foaming with fury, yet not daring aught

Against a daughter of Imperial line.

The tyrant saw her leave his courtly halls.

The while he cried, "Oh! for a safe revenge

On this insulting woman!"

Since this earth

First ran its destined course around the sun.

Was never wanting to a tyrant's rage

Fit instrument  false philosopher,

Of those whom Catherine lately overcame,

Gladly embraced the occasion offered him

To work her evil. To the infuriate Caesar

Did he denounce her as blasphemer 'gainst

The gods of Rome, of Athens, and of Egypt,

As being that most vile of all vile things,

A Christian! Summoned to the dread tribunal

Of Maximin, who triumphed in the thought

Of humbling her, came now without delay

The lovely lady. Stately and serene

Did she approach, and, questioned of her faith,

Unhesitating owned herself a Christian.

The Emperor, his passion moved anew at sight

Both of her beauty and unflinching courage,

Offered her life and freedom on condition

That she unto the gods made sacrifice.

Again rejected, he went further still,

Promising safety, liberty of faith,

If she would only bless him with her hand.

Needs not to say what Catherine replied ;

Enough that in his rage he sentenced her

Instant to perish by a fearful death,

By cruel torture on a whirling wheel 

His orders were obeyed. Amid the groans

Of many, and the secret tears of more.

The maid, upon whose brow sate peace and joy,

Was bound upon the wheel, while Maximin,

Panting for vengeance, loudly called upon

The executioner to do his duty.

The wretch approached to turn the fatal wheel.

To which the maiden was already bound.

When, lo! a miracle! As struck by lightning.

The horrid engine into pieces fell;

And Catherine, her arms crossed on her breast.

Stood, calmly there, uninjured and unbound!

Then rose up to the firmament a shout

Of jubilee from all the multitude,

“The gods forbid that Catherine should die!"

And breaking through the strongest barriers

They placed the virgin on a lofty car,

And drew her with rejoicing to her home!

The tyrant dared not then oppose the people

In their wild moment of enthusiasm ;

But when dark night enwrapped the slumbering city

Was Catherine seized, and secretly conveyed

To prison by his orders. There some days

She languished in the deepest of the dungeons.

Thence, still in silence and in secrecy,

Brought forth at dawn, she perished by the sword,

Her latest breath breathed out in prayer and praise !

Towards morn, a rumour of the virgin's death

Spread through the city, whence derived none knew :

Nor did the people dare to speak aloud

Their doubts and fears upon the matter now ;

For Maximin with arm'd satellites

Had filled each public square and market-place,

And made the craven-hearted people quail

By vast display of force.

The night had come.

The dead of night. The city slumbering lay;

No star shone sparkling in the firmament.

But, like a pall, hung darkness on the earth:

When lo! a sound such as no instrument.

No trumpet, save archangel's, e'er gave out,

So sadly sweet, so thrilling, terrible.

Roused sudden from their sleep the citizens;

While, high in air, a dazzling, blinding light

Shone, 'neath whose glare the Pagans, all aghast.

Fell prone to earth, the while the Christians saw

A band of bright-wing'd angels cleave the sky,

Bearing the body of Saint Catherine

And chanting hymns of triumph as they flew,

Until they reached the summit of a hill

Where they deposited their holy charge

In safety on a spot where, long years after,

A church and monastery were up-raised.

Who owned Saint Catherine for their Patroness,

Their pious intercessor with the Lord!

Such is the legend handed down to us 

In truth and wisdom from the ancient days.

The Irish Monthly, Vol. 1 (1873), 204-207.

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The Testament of Saint Arbogast

July 21 is the feast of Saint Arbogast, an Irish saint who laboured in Strassburg. Below is a poem in his honour composed by the Irish born poet, Thomas D'Arcy McGee (1825-1868). It deals with the final testament of Saint Arbogast, as he lay on his deathbed:

THE TESTAMENT OF ST. ARBOGAST.

St. Arbogast, the bishop, lay

On his bed of death in Strasburg Palace,
And, just at the dawn of his dying day,
Into his own hands took the chalice;
And, praying devoutly, he received
The blessed Host, and thus address'd
His chapter who around him grieved.
And sobbing, heard his last request.

Quoth he; — "The sinful man you see
Was born beyond the western sea.
In Ireland, whence, ordain'd, he came,
In Alsace, to preach in Jesus' name.
There, in my cell in Hagueneau,
Many unto the One I drew;
There fared King Dagobert one day,
With all his forestrie array,
Chasing out wolves and beasts unclean,
As I did errors from God's domain;
The king approached our cell, and he
Esteem'd our assiduity:
And, when the bless'd St. Amand died.
He called us to his seat and sighed.
And charged us watch and ward to keep
In Strasburg o'er our Master's sheep.

“Mitre of gold we never sought
Cope of silver to us was nought —
Jewel'd crook and painted book
We disregarded, but, perforce, took.
Ah! oft in Strasburg's cathedral
We sighed for one rude cell so small,
And often from the bishop's throne
To the forest's depths we would have flown.
But that one duty to Him who made us
His shepherd in this see, forbade us.

"And now "— St. Arbogast spoke slow
But words were firm, tho' voice was low —
"God doth require His servant hence.
And our hope is His omnipotence.
But bury me not, dear brethren, with
The pomp of torches or music, sith
Such idle and unholy slate
Should ne'er on a Christian bishop wait; -
Leave cope of silver and painted book
Mitre of gold and jewel'd crook
Apart in the vestry's darkest nook;
But in Mount Michael bury me.
Beneath the felon's penal tree -
So Christ our Lord lay at Calvary.
This do, as ye my blessing prize.
And God keep you pure and wise! "
These were the words, they were the last,
Of the blessed Bishop Arbogast.

THOMAS D'ARCY MC GEE.

Daniel Connolly. Ed., The Household Library of Ireland’s Poets, with Full and Choice Selections from the Irish-American Poets (New York, 1887), 703.

Teach me, O Trinity

E. Hull Poem, Book of the Gael (1913)

To mark Trinity Sunday, below is a poem taken from a 1913 collection of texts and translations by the Anglican writer Eleanor Hull (1860-1935). She is perhaps best known for her English versification of the hymn 'Be Thou My Vision'. Miss Hull contributed translations from Old Irish to many of the scholarly journals of her day and published various books on early Irish history and mythology. The poem below, by the 12th/13th-century writer Muireadhach Albanach Ó Dálaigh, is a beautiful plea to the Holy Trinity:

TEACH ME, O TRINITY

By Murdoch O'Daly, called Murdoch "the Scotchman" (Muredach Albanach), on account of his affection for that country; born in Connaught towards the close of the twelfth century.

TEACH me, O Trinity,

All men sing praise to Thee, 

Let me not backward be, 

Teach me, O Trinity. 

Come Thou and dwell with me, 

Lord of the holy race; 

Make here thy resting-place, 

Hear me, O Trinity. 

That I Thy love may prove. 

Teach Thou my heart and hand. 

Ever at Thy command 

Swiftly to move. 

Like to a rotting tree 

Is this vile heart of me; 

Let me Thy healing see, 

Help me, O Trinity. 

Sinful, beholding Thee; 

Yet clean from theft and blood My hands; 

O Son of God, 

For Mary's love, answer me. 

In my adversity 

No great man stooped to me, 

No good man pitied me, 

God ope'd His heart to me. 

Lied I, as others lie. 

They deceived, so have I, 

On others' lie I built my lie — Will my God pass this by? 

Truth art Thou, truth I crave, 

If on a lie I rest, I'm lost ; 

My vow demands my uttermost; 

Save, Trinity, O save!

Eleanor Hull, ed. Poem Book of the Gael,  Translations from Irish Gaelic Poetry into English Prose and Verse, (London 1912), 156-157.


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An Irish Poem on the Wise Men

J. R. Allen, Early Christian Symbolism in Gt Britain and Ireland (1887)

January 6 is the feast of the Epiphany, which in the western church is associated with the bringing of gifts to the infant Christ by Magi from the East. Today we take it for granted that there were three wise men, with the names Caspar, Melchior and Balthasar, but this tradition was a long time in the making. The account of the visit in Saint Matthew's Gospel makes no mention of the number of magi, much less their names, and the idea that there were three wise men seems to be based solely on the number of gifts enumerated in the gospel. The Visit of the Magi is a popular theme in medieval European art including that of Ireland. One intriguing representation is found on the tenth-century Muiredach's Cross at Monasterboice and if you look at the image above you will see that there are actually four figures approaching the newborn Christ.  The identity and significance of the 'fourth man' is still a subject of debate among scholars. The Magi also occur in Irish literary sources. In a paper delivered by the scholarly Irish Anglican Bishop, William Reeves, on the subject of an Irish manuscript held in the British Museum, he describes the contents of Folio 5 b as:

An Irish poem on the Wise Men of the East who were led by the star to Bethlehem, consisting of eleven quatrains....The poem is as follows, and the accompanying translation is from the accurate pen of Mr. Eugene Curry.

Auirilius, Humilis, the noble,
Malgalad, Nuntius, of fierce strength,
Melcho the grey-haired, without guile,
With his grey and very long beard.

A senior with a graceful yellow cloak.
With a grey frock of ample size,
Speckled and grey sandals without fault,
He approached not the King without royal gold.

Arenus, Fidelis, the munificent,
Galgalad the devout and fervent;
A red man was Caspar in his vesture
A fair, blooming, beardless youth.

A crimson cloak round the comely champion,
A yellow frock without variety,
Grey and close-fitting sandals:
Frankincense unto God he freely presented.

Damascus was the third man of them,
Misericors, without dejection,
Sincera gratia without restraint,
Patifarsat the truly-grand.

A grizzled man with a crimson, white-spotted cloak:
Crimsoned stood he, above all without competition,
With soft and yellow sandals,
Who presented myrrh to the Great Man.

These are the names of the Druids
In Hebrew, in Greek to be quickly spoken,
In Latin which runs not rapidly.
In the noble language of Arabia.

The colour of their clothes hear ye.
As spoken in each of their countries:
Selva, for the performers of heroic deeds,
Debdae, Aesae, Escidae.

Three were the Druids without gloom;
Triple were their gifts in noble fashion;
Three garments were upon each man of them;
From three worlds they came without debility.

Mary, Joseph, and noble Simeon,
Of the tribe of Judah of the noble kings,
Are in the house in which every hand is a lighted torch.
All together with the Trinity.

May we do thy will, O King,
And desire it with all our heart:
Thou art gracious to relieve us in our distress,
Since the day thou wast adored by Aurelius.

Rev W. Reeves, 'On an Irish MS. of the Four Gospels in the British Museum', Proceedings of the Royal Irish Academy, Vol. V., (1853), 47-50.

Dr Reeves goes on to discuss the possible sources for the descriptive information relating to the Magi in his footnotes but as these are all cited in Latin I won't reproduce them here. He also later discusses the dating evidence for the Manuscript and concludes that  it was written in the twelfth century. This poem is but one aspect of the cult of the Magi in medieval Ireland and is a theme I hope to be able to return to in future posts.

'The High-King of Heaven was born in kindly Bethlehem at Christmas' - a 15th-century Irish Poem

Mary, the smooth white ewe, bore an illustrious Lamb in the stall of an ass; she merited not a mean cold lodging when the illustrious Lamb was with His mother.

The High-King of Heaven was born in kindly Bethlehem at Christmas; when He was born He took a course from the sun so that He warmed the world with His glowing heat.

The windows of the moon and ether opened at the tidings, so that the sun flung wide his doors, heretofore there had been a veil over his light.

The air was full of his radiance, 'twas easy to notice it, it was one bright grove of angels reaching to heaven over Holy Mary.

Quiggin, Edmund Crosby 'Prolegomena to the study of the later Irish bards 1200-1500'(Oxford,1911), 39.

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Star of the world, Catherine, helper of the Greeks

November 25 is the feastday of a saint much-loved in the East - Catherine of Alexandria. In common with other eastern martyrs, like Saints George and Margaret of Antioch, her cult flourished in the medieval West and accounts of her martyrdom appear in a number of European versions, including a fifteenth-century Irish one. I was particularly pleased whilst visiting the National Museum in Dublin to see a figure of Saint Catherine, complete with her wheel, in the company of our native saints on one of the reliquaries. In the medieval Irish poem, Réalta an chruinne Caitir Fhíona, they join her as well. Below is a  translation by Father Lambert McKenna, published as part of a series on bardic poetry in the Irish Jesuit periodical, Studies. I think it is a beautiful tribute to the great martyr and I love its presentation of our native saints as exemplars of the same holy virginity that Saint Catherine embodied.

1. Star of the world, Catherine, helper of the Greeks; she succours most of the races of every province there against death.

2. Catherine curly-haired maid, branch of victory; face as the bloom of fresh apple-tree; bright brow.

3. Bright brow has she, daughter of the King of the Greeks, who never accepted suitor; in the hue of her cheeks is the sheen and colour of the berry.

4. The berry's colour and summer sunshine is in her ruddy cheek; many the curl bending from its stem in her coifed hair.

5. In the shape of Catherine's round eyes no Grecian woman surpassed her; round eye that gazed on no young warrior; lips deep-red and white.

6. Face as apple-blossom; bosom as swan; maid inviolate; down is not whiter than her gleaming white hand; grey eye in fair cheek.

7. No maiden do I see like her in charm but I entreat her; may Mary's Son hide away my folly.

8. Brighid of Éire and Alba, Virgin of the Isles, she is the soft white bloom of virgins, ....

9. Athrachta succour of the Luighnigh; great her zeal; she is the fair-footed virgin of the Búill; waxen candle.

10. Bright gentle Ciarán, Colum Cille - gentle the company! - Pádraig, Martain, Mongan, Manann, Comann, Coireall.

11. The Trinity, great Mary and Michael, the host of the sun, (and) eleven thousand virgins of the Búill, flower of fair maids.


Notes

9. Athracta of Cell Sáile in Críoch Conaill; but she is here connected with Luighne, Co. Sligo.

10. Mongan, Martyr Oeng., Sept. 3; Manann, Martyr Don., Feb. 23; Caireall, ibid, June 13; several saints named Comman occur in the Martyrologies.


Lambert McKenna, ed. and trans., 'Some Irish Bardic Poems XV. St. Catherine of Alexandria' in Studies: An Irish Quarterly Review, Vol. 19, No. 75 (Sep., 1930), pp. 439-440.

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The Legend of Saint Mochaoi of Oendruim

The Legend of Saint Mochaoi of Oendruim

by Seamus O Cuisin

ST MOCHAOI was born about 420 A.D.; founded the abbey of Oendruim (pronounced Endrim; i.e.,"the single ridge"), on the beautiful island bearing that name, about 450; and died in the year 496 or 497. For several centuries the abbey, in which education and monasticism were combined, occupied a prominent position, and from it emanated a number of subsequent founders of similar institutions. Between 974 and 1178 history is silent in regard to it; but it is certain that, from its position on Loch Cuan (Strangford), which was infested by Danish marauders, it came in for a large share of their devastating attentions. From its affiliation, in 1178, with an English religious establishment, it seems to have fallen into a condition of decay; and in 1450 it is simply noted as a parish church in the charge of the Bishop of Down.

The island of Oendruim or, as it is now called, Mahee, from Inis Mochaoi, in memory of its patron saint and founder is situated most picturesquely on Strangford Lough, about seven miles from Comber, and is approachable on foot or car by a fine modern causeway, which crosses an intervening island. On the shore end of the island may be seen many remains of the stone buildings which superseded the original wooden structures in the history of this venerable, romantic, but popularly-neglected shrine. These remains include the stump of a round tower; traces of extensive foundations, once partially laid bare by the late Bishop Reeves, and now almost entirely hidden from sight again; the site of the harbour, where anchored "ships" from Britain; evidences of a God's-acre, hallowed by long time and association ; and a fairly complete castle of a later period. The circuit of the island can be made on foot leisurely in a couple of hours, and the walk affords a view of the extensive waters of the once Dane-infested lough, the distant hoary walls of Greyabbey, the haunts of Saint Patrick, the scene of the death of Ollamh Fodhla, and the daring and unscrupulous deeds of De Courcy, and many other places of interest.

Baile Draigin (Ballydrain) about half-way between Comber and Mahee Island is so called from baile, a place, and Draigin, a blackthorn tree; and the reader will observe the connection between this place and the story. No trace of a church, however, has yet been discovered at Ballydrain.

Rudraide (pronounced Rury) is the modern Dundrum Bay.

The idea contained in the following verses has been variously rendered by several eminent authors. The incident in which it is here embodied may, however, be fairly claimed as the oldest version the original in fact.

Quoth good Saint Mochaoi of Oendruim:

"I will build for Christ my master

Here a church, and here defend Him

And His cause from all disaster."

Seven score youths cut beam and wattle;

Seven score hands unseared in battle

Their unstinted aid did lend him,

Fast and ever faster.

But though arm, and voice loud-ringing,

To a test of toil defied him,

Right and left the wattles flinging,

Not a tongue could dare deride him;

For, before them all, he stood

Finished, waiting. Not a rood

From the spot a bird was singing

In a thorn beside him.

Sang no bird in ancient story

Half so sweet or loud a strain:

Seaward to the loch of Rudraide,

Landward then, and back again

Swelled the song, and trilled and trembled

O'er the toiling youths assembled,

Rang around 'mid summer glory

There at Baile-draigin.

Far more beautiful the bird was

Than the bright-plumed bird of bliss,

And the Abbot's feeling stirred was

To its deepest depths, I wis ;

'Til, as from the fiery splendour

Moses saw, in accents tender

Spake the bird, and lo! the word was:

"Goodly work is this."

"True," quoth Saint Mochaoi of Oendruim,

" 'Tis required by Christ my master

Here to build, and here defend Him

And His cause from all disaster :

But my blood mounts high with weening

Of this gracious word the meaning."

Nearer then the bird did tend him,

Fast and ever faster.

"I shall answer. I descended

From mine angel soul's compeers,

From my home serene and splendid

To this haunt of toil and tears;

Came to cheer thee with a note

From an angel's silvern throat."

Then he sang three songs: each, ended,

Made a hundred years.

There, through days that dawned and darkened,

With his wattles by his side,

Stood the island Saint, and hearkened

To that silvery-flowing tide ;

Stood entranced, and ever wonder'd

'Til had circled thrice a hundred

Years, o'er fields life-lade or stark, and

Cuan's waters wide.

Then, when came the final number,

Ceased the angel-bird its strain,

And, unheld by ills that cumber

Mortals, sought the heavenly plain.

Then the Saint, in mute amaze,

Round him turned an anxious gaze,

And from that far land of slumber

Came to earth again.

There his load, 'mid weed and flower,

Lay beside him all unbroken,

'Til, with thrice augmented power,

From his holy dream awoken,

Up he bore it to his shoulder,

Broad, and not a hand's-breadth older.

Scarce, thought he, had passed an hour

Since the bird had spoken.

Toward his island church he bore it.

Lo! an oratory gleaming,

And " To Saint Mochaoi "writ o'er it.

"Now," quoth he, "in truth I'm dreaming.

Say, good monk, at whose consistory

Shall I solve this mighty mystery,

And to form of fact restore it

From this shadowy seeming?"

So he spake to one who faced him

With a look of mild surprise,

One who swiftly brought and placed him

'Neath the Abbot's searching eyes.

Leave him there. Not mine to rhyme of

Deeds that filled the later time of

Him who, fain though years would waste him,

Ages not nor dies.

Ends the wondrous old-time story

Of the bird's long, lethal strain,

Sung through summers hot and hoary,

Winters white on mount and main ;

And the monks, to mark the mission

Of the bird so says tradition

Built a church to God's great glory

There at Baile-draigin.

Ulster Journal of Archaeology,  Vol 10 (1904), 100-103.

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'Gem of Our Church, Fair Ita'

F. Anger, St Itha (1901)

January 15 is the feast of Saint Ita, 'the Brigid of Munster' and patroness of the Diocese of Limerick. A post on her life can be found here, but below is the text of a late nineteenth century poem in honour of the saint. It was published in the periodical founded by Father Matthew Russell S.J., The Irish Monthly.  The poem is typically Victorian in its sentimental piety, but still worth reading on the feast of this great Irish woman saint. The illustration is a near-contemporary one taken from the work of the Reverend Sabine Baring-Gould, Virgin Saints and Martyrs, published in 1901.

ST. ITA.
Patroness of the Diocese of Limerick
[Jan. 15]

SING, sing ye a maiden holy,
And pure as the driven snow,
A saint of our sainted island
Serving God long ago.
Oh, she had riches and suitors
Where royal Decies stood,
But gave up all for a lover
Who shed for her His Blood.

Sing, sing ye a maiden holy,
And pure as the driven snow,
A saint of our sainted island
Serving God long ago.

"Depart", cried a voice, "from kindred,
And from thy father's lands;
Make haste to a distant region,
Where dark-browed Loochar stands.
Wild warriors there shall build thee
A home by the mountain side;
Hy-Connaill bloom as a garden,
And bless thee far and wide. "

Sing, sing ye a maiden holy,
And pure as the driven snow,
A saint of our sainted island
Serving God long ago.

And clansmen and maidens gathered
Around that white-robed dove;
And the land served God as a virgin,
All, all of that virgin's love.
O, gem of our Church, fair Ita,
Maid of our worship and love,
Pray for our priests and people,
Saint of the heavens above.

Sing, sing ye a maiden holy,
And pure as the driven snow,
A saint of our sainted island
Serving God long ago.

R. O. K., St. Ita,  The Irish Monthly,  Vol. 23, No. 259 (Jan., 1895), p. 26.

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'A Queen of the Race of David'- An Irish Poem on the Virgin Mary

Pictorial Lives of the Saints (1878)

November 21 is the Feast of the Presentation of the Blessed Virgin Mary.  The sources for this episode in the life of the Mother of God are found in the apocryphal Protoevangelium of James, which tells us that the parents of Our Blessed Lady presented her for service in the Temple when she was three years old. There she remained until puberty when her marriage was arranged. I was pleased to find an eighth-century Irish poem which reflects this tradition included with Professor James Carney's translations of the poems of Blathmac and the Irish Gospel of Thomas. He says in his introduction:

The poem to the Virgin Mary .. would appear to be of the same date as the Irish Gospel of Thomas, and is simply an effort to assure us that the Blessed Virgin was of noble lineage. The poet was familiar with the view that Mary before her marriage to Joseph was one of the virgins serving in the Temple at Jerusalem. This idea is as old as the Book of James or Protoevangelium which is assigned to the second century.

It is interesting to see that these apocryphal sources were known to the Early Irish Church. I imagine that establishing the ancestral background of the Blessed Virgin would have struck a chord with the Irish writer, given that Ireland's own tribal society took a keen interest in matters genealogical. The poem begins with a clear statement of the tradition that the Mother of God spent her childhood in service reading the Law and the Prophets as a preparation for her great role in salvation history.

III. A Poem on the Virgin Mary

1. Mary is the mother of the little boy who was born on Christmas night: she read the Prophets and the Law until she was experienced in service.

2. The woman was not unstable, the holy maiden was sage; she conceived with steadfastness and glory the well of divine wisdom.

3. Hail to you! whatever may come, O blessed amongst women. Hail! You will receive in your womb a being called Jesus.

4. A being who has been born before worlds, who has given life to the dead; there is not apparent - though it is clear that it is not falsehood - in the Vetus or the Nouum a being like him.

5. The mother who has borne the boy is without doubt ever-virgin; when the place from which she comes is known numerous are her kinsfolk.

6. Of 1 the people who sacrificed the Lamb who were in the city of Zion , of the posterity of Noah and Shem: it is Jerusalem.

7. A maiden of the seeds of the kings, a queen of the race of David; it was no low-class kin in addition to that; the maiden was of the tribe of Juda.

8. The woman was a daughter of Israel, the maiden was of noble race. Mary is the name of the woman who conceived in Bethlehem of Juda.

1= 'She (Mary) is of...'

James Carney, ed. and trans., The Poems of Blathmac Son of Cú Brettan - Together with the Irish Gospel of Thomas and a Poem on the Virgin Mary (Dublin, 1964), xviii; 108-111.

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The Massacre of the Innocents in Irish Sources

The Martyrology of Oengus devotes its entire entry for December 28 to the commemoration of The Massacre of the Innocents by King Herod:

28. Famous is their eternal acclamation,

beyond every loveable band,

which the little children from Bethlehem

sing above to their Father.

to which the scholiast has added a commentary:

28. Famous the lasting acclamation, i.e. famous and lasting is the shout of the children who were killed in Bethlehem by Herod pro Christo.

a loveable band, i.e. they are a dear band propter innocentiam.

who sing above to their Father, i.e. canunt laudes, etc.

A hundred and forty - bright fulfilment - and two thousands of children

were slain in Bethlehem with victory by the ruler, by Herod.

Thirty plains famous, pleasant, all about Bethlehem ;

in every plain were slain a hundred of the pleasant children of the

nobles ;

a hundred and forty - sad the doom ! - in Bethlehem alone.

The Massacre of the Innocents is also commemorated in other Irish sources, appearing, for example, in the poems of the eighth-century monastic writer Blathmac. He records in the first of his poems, in the translation of James Carney:

20. In seeking Christ (pitiful this!) the infants of Bethlehem were slain. It was by Herod (bloodier than any prince!) that they were put to the blue sword.

21. Happy the good gentle infants! They have happiness in an eternal kingdom: Herod, miserable creature, has eternal sorrow and eternal Hell.

James Carney, ed. and trans., The poems of Blathmac, son of Cú Brettan: Together with the Irish Gospel of Thomas and a poem on the Virgin Mary (Dublin, 1964), 9.

Below is the text of another poem, found in the Leabhar Breac, which reflects the raw pain of the bereaved mothers and the sheer horror of the deed:

The Mothers’ Lament at the Slaughter of the Innocents

Then, as she plucked her son from her

breast for the executioner, one of the

women said:

‘Why do you tear from me my darling son,

The fruit of my womb?

It was I who bore him, he drank my breast.

My womb carried him about, he sucked my vitals.

He filled my heart:

He was my life, ’tis death to have him taken from me.

My strength has ebbed,

My voice is stopped,

My eyes are blinded.’

Then another woman said:

‘It is my son you take from me.

I did not do the evil,

But kill me — me: don’t kill my son!

My breasts are sapless, my eyes are wet,

My hands shake,

My poor body totters.

My husband has no son,

And I no strength;

My life is worth — death.

Oh, my one son, my God!

His foster-father has lost his hire.

My birthless sicknesses with no requital until Doom.

My breasts are silent,

My heart is wrung.’

Then said another woman:

‘Ye are seeking to kill one; ye are killing many.

Infants ye slay, fathers ye wound; you kill the mothers.

Hell with your deed is full, heaven shut.

Ye have spilt the blood of guiltless innocents.’

And yet another woman said:

‘O Christ, come to me!

With my son take my soul quickly:

O Great Mary, Mother of the Son of God,

What shall I do without my son?

For Thy Son, my spirit and my sense are killed.

I am become a crazy woman for my son.

After the piteous slaughter

My heart’s a clot of blood

From this day

Till Doom comes.’

‘Anecdota from Irish MSS’ (III), ed. Kuno Meyer, The Gaelic Journal 4, no. 38 (May 1891), 90.

A powerful lament, indeed.

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'Thou art the Mother of the Great King' - an Irish night prayer in honour of Our Lady

Below is the text of a beautiful night prayer to Our Lady, which I first posted some years ago. It is such a wonderful text that it deserves a second outing.

A devotional poem, dated c.900 runs:

O Mary, my blessing on thee in every part that thou mayest commend me tonight to thy Son.

O Queen of all the virgins in the wide world, pray for me to thy great good Son that I may be saved.

That thou mayest bring triumph from the world with numerous hosts, bring me to heaven swiftly by thy grace.

By thy birth, by thy glory, come to me; to the house of thy great good Son lead me by the hand.

By the choice that was made of thee over every part, by the Father, faultless worth, by the Son,

By the Holy Spirit who has bestowed every grace on thee, to bring me to heaven, fair the place, be it thy share.

By every angel, by every virgin, by every saint, bring me in the company of the (heavenly) hosts with noble peace.

With my soul, with my body, with my understanding and with my sense, I am under thy protection as long as I may be here.

Mayest thou save me, whether early or late I leave the world, from every danger with numerous hosts, from every attack.

I throw myself on thy breast, on thy knee and on thy cheek, on thy soul, on thy blood, on thy flesh at all times.

Under thy protection may I be here and yonder against every strait, mayest thou be my guard always (until I come) to the King of the stars.

O Mary, hear my cry to holy heaven so that thou mayest be my shelter against the host of base devils.

Except for Christ thou art the one most abounding in grace who has visited the world, thou hast defeated the devil in battle in thy course.

Thou art the vessel in which was the manna, O fair generous one; thou art the shrine in which was for a while the Son of the King of the stars.

Thou art the golden cup in which was the wine which intoxicates and gladdens the host for all eternity.

Thou art the paradise in which was the sweet tree of life; thy Son has taken the hostage of the (human) race, O pleasant Sun.

Thou art the mother of the great King, Son of swift God; thy countenance shines gloriously like the sun.

Mayest thou save me from sin, from the plague of cold hell; let not the demon near me, O radiant sun.

May it be a protection to me to praise thee – blessed is that; whoever practises it rightly, may he have heaven.

The prayer of each strong noble saint to thee: thy prayer along with each to pure Christ:

That I may have the gift of diligent piety always; that I may shine like a star yonder in heaven;

That no demon may come to me when I shall die; that I may not get torment nor plague from the King of the clouds.

May I not part from Christ here nor yonder; the house where is the Son of the King of the stars, may I be there.

The blessing of rich and poor on thy Son; O Mary, my blessing on thee in every part.

Source: B. O Cuiv, 'Some early devotional verse in Irish', Eriu, XIX, 13-17 in P.O'Dwyer O.Carm, Mary – a history of devotion in Ireland (Dublin, 1988), 64-65.

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Christmas Eve in Ireland

Frontispiece to The Irish Christmas (Dublin, 1917).

Today is Christmas Eve and as a child I remember hearing that on this night we should leave a light shining in the front window of the house. This was to act as a signal that even if there was 'no room at the inn' elsewhere, Saint Joseph and Our Blessed Lady would find shelter with us. Katharine Tynan in her poem 'Christmas Eve in Ireland' alludes to this tradition and also to the fact that people not only displayed lights but kept their doors unlocked. Obviously it was an earlier and more innocent age! I've also published a poem called Saint Brigid's Lullabies at my other site Trias Thaumaturga today, you can read it here.

CHRISTMAS EVE IN IRELAND

NOT a cabin in the Glen shuts its door to-night,

Lest the travellers abroad knock in vain and pass,

Just a humble gentleman and a lady bright

And she to be riding on an ass.

Grief is on her goodman, that the inns deny

Shelter to his dearest Dear in her hour of need;

That her Babe of royal birth, starriest, most high,

Has not where to lay His head.

Must they turn in sadness to the cattle byre

And the kind beasts once again shake the bed for

Him?

Not a cabin in the Glen but heaps wood on the fire

And keeps its lamps a-trim.

Now the woman makes the bed, smooths the linen

sheet,

Spreads the blanket, soft and white, that her

own hands spun.

Whisht! is that the ass that comes, on his four

little feet,

Carrying the Holy One ?

Nay, 'twas but the wind and rain, the sand on the

floor.

A bitter night, yea, cruel, for folk to be abroad.

And she, not fit for hardship, outside a fast-closed

door,

And her Son the Son of God!

Is it the moon that's turning the dark world to

bright ?

Is it some wonderful dawning in the night and

cold ?

Whisht! did you see a shining One and Him to

be clad in light

And the wings and head of Him gold ?

Who are then those people, hurrying, hasting,

those,

And they all looking up in the sky this night of

wondrous things ?

Oh, those I think be shepherdmen, and they that

follow close

I think by their look be kings.

Not a cabin in the Glen shuts the door till day,

Lest the heavenly travellers come, knock again

in vain.

All the night the dulcimers, flutes, and hautboys

play,

And the angels walk with men.

The Flower of Peace - A Collection of the Devotional Poetry of Katharine Tynan, 11-12.

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