O little stag, thou little bleating one;
O melodious little clamourer,
sweet to us is the music
thou makest in the glen.
Longing for my little home
has come on my senses—
the flocks in the plain,
the deer on the mountain.Thou oak, bushy, leafy,
thou art high beyond trees;
O hazlet, little branching one,
O fragrance of hazel-nuts.O alder, thou art not hostile,
delightful is thy hue,
thou art not rending and prickling
in the gap wherein thou art.O little blackthorn, little thorny one;
O little black sloe-tree;
O watercress, little green-topped one,
from the brink of the ousel(?) spring.O minen of the pathway,
thou art sweet beyond herbs,
O little green one, very green one,
O herb on which grows the strawberry.O apple-tree, little apple-tree,
much art thou shaken;
O quicken, little berried one,
delightful is thy bloom.O briar, little arched one,
thou grantest no fair terms,
thou ceasest not to tear me,
till thou hast thy fill of blood.
O yew-tree, little yew-tree,
in churchyards thou art conspicuous;
o ivy, little ivy,
thou art familiar in the dusky wood.O holly, little sheltering one,
thou door against the wind;
o ash-tree, thou baleful one,
hand-weapon of a warrior.O birch, smooth and blessed,
thou melodious, proud one,
delightful each entwining branch
in the top of thy crown.The aspen a-trembling;
by turns I hear
its leaves a-racing—
meseems 'tis the foray!My aversion in woods—
I conceal it not from anyone—
is the leafy stirk of an oak
swaying evermore.(?)Ill-hap by which I outraged
the honour of Ronan Finn,
his miracles have troubled me,
his little bells from the church.Ill-omened I found
the armour of upright Congai,
his sheltering, bright tunic
with selvages of gold.
It was a saying of each one
of the valiant, active host:
Let not escape from you through the narrow copse
the man of the goodly tunic.Wound, kill, slaughter,
let all of you take advantage of him;
put him, though it is great guilt,
on spit and on spike.The horsemen pursuing me
across round Magh Cobha,
no cast from them reaches
me through my back.Going through the ivy-trees—
I conceal it not, O warrior—
like good cast of a spear
I went with the wind.O little fawn, O little long-legged one,
I was able to catch thee
riding upon thee
from one peak to another.From Carn Cornan of the contests
to the summit of Sliabh Niadh,
from the summit of Sliabh Uillinne
I reach Crota Cliach.From Crota Cliach of assemblies
to Carn Liffi of Leinster,
I arrive before eventide
in bitter Benn Gulbain.
My night before the battle of Congal,
I deemed it fortunate,
before I restlessly
wandered over the mountain-peaks.Glen Bolcain, my constant abode,
'twas a boon to me,
many a night have I attempted
a stern race against the peak.If I were to wander alone
the mountains of the brown world,
better would I deem the site of a single hut
in the Glen of mighty Bolcan.Good its water pure-green,
good its clean, fierce wind,
good its cress-green watercress,
best its tall brooklime.Good its enduring ivy-trees,
good its bright, cheerful sallow,
good its yewy yews,
best its melodious birch.If thou shouldst come, O Loingseachan,
to me in every guise,
each night to talk to me,
perchance I would not tarry for thee.I would not have tarried to speak to thee
were it not for the tale which has wounded me—
father, mother, daughter, son,
brother, strong wife dead.
If thou shouldst come to speak to me,
no better would I deem it;
I would wander before morn
the mountains of Boirche of peaks.By the mill of the little floury one(?)
thy folk has been ground,(?)
O wretched one, O weary one,
O swift Loingseachan.O hag of this mill,
why dost thou take advantage of me?
I hear thee revile me
even when thou art out on the mountain.O hag, O round-headed one,(?)
wilt thou go on a steed?I would go, O fool-head(?)
if no one were to see me.O Suibhne, if I go,
may my leap be successful.If thou shouldst come, O hag,
mayst thou not dismount full of sense!(?)In sooth, not just is what thou sayest,
thou son of Colman Cas;
is not my riding better without falling back?Just, in sooth, is what I say,
O hag without sense;
a demon is ruining thee,
thou hast ruined thyself.
Dost thou not deem my arts better,
thou noble, slender madman,
that I should be following thee
from the tops of the mountains?A proud ivy-bush
which grows through,a twisted tree—
if I were right on its summit,
I would fear to come out.I flee before the skylarks—
'tis a stern, great race—
I leap over the stumps
on the tops of the mountains.When the proud turtle-dove
rises for us, quickly do I
overtake it
since my feathers have grown.The silly, foolish woodcock
when it rises for me methinks
'tis a bitter foe, the blackbird
(too) that gives the cry of alarm.Every time I would bound
till I was on the ground
so that I might see the little fox
below a-gnawing the bones..Beyond every wolf(?) among the ivy-trees
swiftly would he get the advantage of me,
so nimbly would I leap
till I was on the mountain-peak.
Little foxes yelping
to me and from me,
wolves at their rending,
I flee at their sound.They have striven to reach me,
coming in their swift course,
so that I fled before them
to the tops of the mountains.My transgression has come
against me whatsoever way I flee;
'tis manifest to me from the pity
shown me that I am a sheep without a fold.The old tree of Cell Lughaidhe
wherein I sleep a sound sleep;
more delightful in the time of Congal
was the fair of plenteous Line.There will come the starry frost
which will fall on every pool;
I am wretched, straying
exposed to it on the mountain-peak.The herons a-calling
in chilly Glenn Aighle,
swift flocks of birds
coming and going.I love not the merry prattle
that men and women make:
sweeter to me is the warbling
of the blackbird in the quarter in which it is.
I love not the trumpeting
I hear at early morn:
sweeter to me the squeal
of the badgers in Benna Broc.I love not the horn-blowing
so boldly I hear:
sweeter to me the belling of a stag
of twice twenty peaks.There is the material of a plough-team
from glen to glen:
each stag at rest
on the summit of the peaks.Though many are my stags
from glen to glen,
not often is a ploughman's hand
closing round their horns(?).The stag of lofty Sliabh Eibhlinne,
the stag of sharp Siiabh Fuaid,
the stag of Ealla, the stag of Orrery,
the fierce stag of Loch Lein.The stag of Seimhne, Larne's stag,
the stag of Line of the mantles,
the stag of Cuailgne, the stag of Conachail,
the stag of Bairenn of two peaks.O mother of this herd,
thy coat has become grey,
there is no stag after thee
without two score antler-points.
Greater than the material for a little cloak
thy head has turned grey;
if I were on each little point,
there would be a pointlet on every point.Thou stag that comest lowing
to me across the glen,
pleasant is the place for seats on the top
of thy antler-points.I am Suibhne, a poor suppliant,
swiftly do I race across the glen;
that is not my lawful name,
rather is it Fer benn.The springs I found best:
the well of Leithead Lan,
the well most beautiful and cool,
the fountain of Dun Mail.Though many are my wanderings,
my raiment to-day is scanty;
I myself keep my watch
on the top of the mountains.O tall, russet fern,
thy mantle has been made red;
there is no bed for an outlaw
in the branches of thy crests.At ever-angelic Tech Moling,
at puissant Toidhen in the south,
'tis there my eternal resting-place will be,
I shall fall by a [spear]-point.
The curse of Ronan Finn
has thrown me in thy company,
O little stag, little bleating one,
O melodious little clamourer.