Old Celtic Romances. Anonymous

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       And we fly to the west at last!

      We leave for ever the stream of Moyle;

       On the clear, cold wind we go;

       Three hundred years round Glora's isle,

       Where wintry tempests blow!

      No sheltered home, no place of rest,

       From the tempest's angry blast:

       Fly, brothers, fly, to the distant west,

       For the hour has come at last!

      So the swans left the Sea of Moyle, and flew westward, till they reached Irros Domnann and the sea round the isle of Glora. There they remained for a long time, suffering much from storm and cold, and in nothing better off than they were on the Sea of Moyle.

      It chanced that a young man named Ebric, of good family, the owner of a tract of land lying along the shore, observed the birds and heard their singing. He took great delight in listening to their plaintive music, and he walked down to the shore almost every day, to see them and to converse with them; so that he came to love them very much, and they also loved him. This young man told his neighbours about the speaking swans, so that the matter became noised abroad; and it was he who arranged the story, after hearing it from themselves, and related it as it is related here.

      Again their hardships were renewed, and to describe what they suffered on the great open Western Sea would be only to tell over again the story of their life on the Moyle. But one particular night came, of frost so hard that the whole face of the sea, from Irros Domnann to Achill, was frozen into a thick floor of ice; and the snow was driven by a north-west wind. On that night it seemed to the three brothers that they could not bear their sufferings any longer, and they began to utter loud and pitiful complaints. Finola tried to console them, but she was not able to do so, for they only lamented the more; and then she herself began to lament with the others.

      After a time, Finola spoke to them and said, "My dear brothers, believe in the great and splendid God of truth, who made the earth with its fruits, and the sea with its wonders; put your trust in Him, and He will send you help and comfort."

      "We believe in Him," said they.

      "And I also," said Finola, "believe in God, who is perfect in everything, and who knows all things."

      And at the destined hour they all believed, and the Lord of heaven sent them help and protection; so that neither cold nor tempest molested them from that time forth, as long as they abode on the Western Sea.

      So they continued at the point of Irros Domnann, till they had fulfilled their appointed time there. And Finola addressed the sons of Lir—

      "My dear brothers, the end of our time here has come; we shall now go to visit our father and our people."

      And her brothers were glad when they heard this.

      Then they rose lightly from the face of the sea, and flew eastward with joyful hopes, till they reached Shee Finnaha. But when they alighted they found the place deserted and solitary, its halls all ruined and overgrown with rank grass and forests of nettles; no houses, no fire, no mark of human habitation.

      Then the four swans drew close together, and they uttered three loud mournful cries of sorrow.

      And Finola chanted this lay—

      What meaneth this sad, this fearful change,

       That withers my heart with woe?

       The house of my father all joyless and lone,

       Its halls and its gardens with weeds overgrown—

       A dreadful and strange overthrow!

      No conquering heroes, no hounds for the chase,

       No shields in array on its walls,

       No bright silver goblets, no gay cavalcades,

       No youthful assemblies or high-born maids,

      To brighten its desolate halls!

      An omen of sadness—the home of our youth

       All ruined, deserted, and bare.

       Alas for the chieftain, the gentle and brave;

       His glories and sorrows are stilled in the grave,

       And we left to live in despair!

      From ocean to ocean, from age unto age,

       We have lived to the fulness of time;

       Through a life such as men never heard of we've passed,

       In suffering and sorrow our doom has been cast,

       By our stepmother's pitiless crime!

      The children of Lir remained that night in the ruins of the palace—the home of their forefathers, where they themselves had been nursed; and several times during the night they chanted their sad, sweet, fairy music.

      Early next morning they left Shee Finnaha, and flew west to Inis Glora, where they alighted on a small lake. There they began to sing so sweetly that all the birds of the district gathered in flocks round them on the lake, and on its shore, to listen to them; so that the little lake came to be called the Lake of the Bird-flocks.

      During the day the birds used to fly to distant points of the coast to feed, now to Iniskea of the lonely crane,[XXIV.] now to Achill, and sometimes southwards to Donn's Sea Rocks,[XXV.] and to many other islands and headlands along the shore of the Western Sea, but they returned to Inis Glora every night.

      They lived in this manner till holy Patrick came to Erin with the pure faith; and until Saint Kemoc came to Inis Glora.

      The first night Kemoc came to the island, the children of Lir heard his bell at early matin time, ringing faintly in the distance. And they trembled greatly, and started, and ran wildly about; for the sound of the bell was strange and dreadful to them, and its tones filled them with great fear. The three brothers were more affrighted than Finola, so that she was left quite alone; but after a time they came to her, and she asked them—

      "Do you know, my brothers, what sound is this?"

      And they answered, "We have heard a faint, fearful voice, but we know not what it is."

      "This is the voice of the Christian bell," said Finola; "and now the end of our suffering is near; for this bell is the signal that we shall soon be freed from our spell, and released from our life of suffering; for God has willed it."

      And she chanted this lay—

      Listen, ye swans, to the voice of the bell,

       The sweet bell we've dreamed of for many a year;

       Its tones floating by on the night breezes, tell

      That the end of our long life of sorrow is near!

      Listen, ye swans, to the heavenly strain;

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