Colum Cille

Would to God, O Son of Mary,
    Sailing, rowing,
I could cross the sea to Ireland,
    Homeward going!

Up Lough Foyle, beneath Benvenagh
    Into Derry,
Where at evening the swan’s call would
    Make me merry.

Were my ship but anchored, flouting
   The waves’ beating,
All the seagulls would come shouting
    Their shrill greeting.

Happy is the son of Deema
    In his dwelling;
He can hear there, west from Durrow,
    Music swelling.

Hear the murmur of the elmtree
    Branches sighing,
And the clapping wings of startled
    Blackbirds crying.
Stags about Ros Grencha belling
    From some clearing,
And the cuckoo in the woods at
    Summer’s nearing.

Would to God I had fled the battle
    Nor been banished!
There the three things I most cherished
    Ever vanished.

Three things dearest under Heaven
    To my sorrow
I have forfeited, Teerleedy,
    Derry, Durrow.


Note: An 11th century poem about a 6th century saint who is supposed
to have exiled himself in Iona for his part in the battle of Cuil
Dremne, AD. 561.

Source: Frank O'Connor; The Little Monasteries; Dublin; Dolmen
Press; 1963, 1976 (1976 ed.); pp.38-39