by G. R. Grove
More tales were told than monkish scribes wrote down
in Ireland old. I hear them in the sound
of evening wind across Muirthemne’s plain,
where once one warrior battled – not in vain –
against a host, his own land to defend.
Now listen, if you will, unto the end
of this my tale, which will describe his birth,
as told by bards who sleep in Irish earth.
A flock of birds flew over Emain’s fields
and settled there, voraciously to steal
all green and growing fruits of that fair land.
No one could drive them thence, until a band
of warriors led by Conchobar the King
came chariot-borne to hunt them. Stone and sling
had no effect; the birds flew never far,
and waited for the hunters. As in war
the men pursued them all that afternoon
until at last, at rising of the moon,
they vanished. Not a feather could be found.
The weary warriors chose a camping ground
between the river Boyne and Óengus’ Hill,
and built a fire. The night grew cold and still,
and mist rose, silver-shining, all around.
Then suddenly they heard a distant sound
of harp-song. Chilled and hungry as they were,
they rose and followed it. Above, a blur
of silver, sailed the moon; around, all else
seemed ghostly, dream-like, reapt away by stealth
through magic. Then, before them in the night
they saw, like sunrise, bloom a golden light
which shone from out a door in Óengus’ Hill.
“Come in!” a voice cried. “Eat and drink your fill
here in my hall! You are my guests tonight.”
They saw a kingly Man with face as bright
as morning sunshine, and beside him stood
a woman fair. They entered then, and good
they found the feast: sweet mead and wine and ale
flowed generously, nor did the flesh-hook fail
to find in cauldron black each dish they sought.
Then well-baked fish and tender greens were brought,
and berries sweet as summer, black and red,
and butter rich and soft for wheaten bread.
At last, replete, did Conchobar the King
address the woman: “Lady, your face brings
a memory back.” – “As well it should,” she said,
“I am your sister Deichtine, who fled
three years ago to live among the Sidhe,
my mother’s people. Glad am I to see
your face, my brother Conchobar, once more.
I and my maidens led you here. Before
you leave, I have a gift for Emain’s land.”
“What gift?” Her shining Husband came to stand
beside her then. “You’ll have it, come the day,
O Conchobar,” was all that He would say.
The feasting ended; men lay down to sleep,
and when the King awoke from slumber deep
he found he and his followers again
beside their fire upon Muirthemne’s plain.
He heard a whimper, found within his arms
a new-born boy-child cradled safe from harm,
wrapped in a silken mantle bright as gold
or morning sun, to keep away the cold –
the son of Lug, he knew, and Deichtine,
given to keep his Ulster proud and free.
When all the warriors woke and saw the boy
the king held up, their hearts were filled with joy.
Their horses harnessed, homeward then they went
and argued who should foster this God-sent
young child. Bold fighters, poets, and wise men
all made their claims, but Morann in the end,
the wisest judge in all of Ireland’s lands,
gave him at first to Finnchaem’s gentle hands,
to be her nursling until he was weaned.
Back then he went to Conchobar, and gleaned
his training from all those at Emain’s Fort,
and soon excelled in beauty and in sport
all other lads his age, and elders too.
Called Sétanta at first, he gained a new
proud name from one great early boyhood feat,
when, bid by Conchobar to feasting sweet,
he slew, to save his life, his host’s great hound –
but that fine tale, I know, is elsewhere found.
Enough I’ve told of one whose life was short.
Undying fame with early death he bought
by his own choice, but Ulster’s foes he killed,
and so fulfilled his fate, as Lug had willed.
For now, I’ll bring my story to an end –
good health to all, and never lack for friends!
