These selections are taken from A Celtic Miscellany translated by Kenneth Hurlstone Jackson Penguin Classics reprinted 1982
They have sent forth their cry, the loquacious lads, yesterday they heard it under the green trees, pure and churchlike, three lifetimes to the gentle laureate poets - the linnet from the brake, the blameless nightingale, solemn and celestial; the pure-toned thrush, sweet rascal; the balckbird, he whose zeal is greater; and the woodlark soaring wantonly, catching the skylark’s tune; singing, scattering so much fancy, so gay, so fresh, the accent of true passion.
Not far is the grove, with notes unceasing, the April grove, thick with the primrose, a place of fair song and of daisies; a dell of clover in May-Day vigour, in its green dress with true abundance, filled with joy; the flowers on the hawthorn tips, the slender birch in its gree leafage. Fine is the fountain, lovely the place where it wells up under the saplings - the bright water, the limpid water, a place of fair well-being, a place to sleep, a place to learn whole tunes of melody.
I would have all pleasures in my dwelling, I would sing The Gentle Girl of Gwynedd in gay harmonious music, and The Irish Girl, Comely Elir, The Horned Oxen, The Maiden’s Laughter, all in the mansion of the bright greenwood; singing loud of the glad fallows, with the birds intermingling, singing auspiciously a snatch to the Lord, a golden course of fame and glory; tunings, songs, some modulations, fancies, change of voices, inthe countless woodland halls.
Many are the tree-tops of the far-seen woods, many the tree-trunks of deep timber; and many there the bright tunes of praise, in this place of many a full sweet-stringed prelude; they bring many a panegyric to the tenants of the meadows; every fowl is in its full voice, every tree in its pale green tunic, every plant with all its virtue, every bird with a laureate poet’s mouth. It is not sick, but sprightly, with heavenly notes; not troubled, but treble; and Venus owns the mansion.
It is good for men to be entertained, it is good for girls to be amused, it is good for lads on Sunday. How fair this is, no offence to the aged, fair for the young, no cause of anger, in the greenwood and green meadows. How fair true God the Father made it, his gifts and grace so glorious! How fair each tone, how fair each turn, so it all be guiltless! The earth so fine, early with wheat, and the woodland such sweet land, a place of grace abounding.
Mountain stream, clear and limpid, wandering down towards the valley, whispering songs among the rushes - oh, that I were as the stream!
Mountain heather all in flower - longing fills me, at the sight, to stay upon the hills in the wind and the heather.
Small birds of the high mountain that soar up in the healthy wind, flitting from one peak to the other - oh, that I were as the bird!
Son of the mountain am I, far from home making my song; but my heart is in the mountain, with the heather and small birds.
I have a house in the land to the north, one half of it red gold, the lower half of silver.
Its porch is of white bronze and its threshold of copper, and the wings of white-yellow burds is its thatch, I think.
Its candlesticks are golden, with a candle of great purity, with a gem of precious stone in the very middle of the house.
But for myself and the high-queen, none of us are sad; a household there without old age, with yellow curly-crested hair.
Every man is a chess player, there are good companies there without exclusion; the house is not closed against man or woman going to it.
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