Lay of Norse-Irish Sea-Kings

Fair our fleet at Castle Sweyn —
Glad good news for Innisfail! —
Never rode on bounding brine
Barks so fine with soaring sail.

Tall men urge the ships and steer
Our light, leaping, valiant van;
Each hand holds a champion's spear —
Gay of cheer is ev'ry man.

Coats of black the warriors wear
On the barks with tree-mast tall;
Broad the brown belts that they bear,
Norse and Nobles are they all.

Sword-hilts gold and iv'ry gleam
On our barks with banners high;
Hung on hooks the bucklers beam,
Sheaves of spears are standing nigh.

Purple wings our ships expand
O'er the fleckt and flowing wave;
'Mid the masts the champions stand
Fit for foray, mild and brave.

Blue is the sea surrounding
Prows o'er the billows bounding;
Swords in their sheaths are glowing,
The lances thrill for throwing!

Fair are the forms reclining
On the cushioned couches high,
Wives in their beauty shining
'Neath the chequered canopy.

Silks in varied fold on fold,
Clothe our king-ship sailing fast;
Silks of purple splendour hold
Wells of wind at every mast.

There is seen no hardened hand —
Waist of worker belted tight;
High-voiced heroes hold command,
Fond of music, play, and fight.

Ne'er did Finn or. Fianna know
Gallant chiefs of deeds more grand,
Nor could Erinn braver show
Than this fair-haired battle band.

Swifter ship of ships there's none —
None shall go, and none has gone;
Here comes nor sigh nor sorrow
Night or noon, day or morrow.

Fleeter bark of barks ne'er fared —
Full of princely folk she goes;
Gold with bards they've, gen'rous, shared
While the foam-topt ocean flows.

Who took this fleet together
Close to the high hill heather?
Dauntless he; he braves the blast —
Claims his right with upraised mast.

Sail the ship, Ion, son of Sweyn!
O'er the hard-backed brilliant brine;
Raise aloft its conq'ring crown
O'er the billows' fret and frown.

Many welcomes, many smiles,
Greet our ship, 'mid Alba's isles:
Bards, the narrow seas among,
Welcome us with harp and song.

Then we came to Castle Sweyn,
Like a bright hawk o'er the brine;
By that rock we raised the fight,
Facing foes with fierce delight.

There we pierced the foreign foes
As the stinging serpent goes;
Sore we smote them, men and lords,
With our thin, sharp, shearing swords,

Chanting Sweyn-son's battle-song,
All the surging seas along;
Till the shore-rock tall and black,
Over ocean sends it back.

Vain their spears and swords and darts, —
Our brown bucklers hold our hearts;
Rocky Rathlin, rousing, hears
Singing of our swords and spears.

That thin sword is Europe's best,
That swift spear serves each behest;
Where were shield safe in the world
When the victor weapon's hurled?

Son of Sweyn, whose ways are wide,
These keen arms keep at his side;
Be it now the blind bard's care
Him to sing, strong, sage, and fair.