Song of the Sea: Introduction
On the outskirts of the Continental world, the oral literature, handed down by many generations of bards and storytellers, was first written down in the monasteries.
In Ireland nearly all old manuscripts were destroyed during the Viking terror which burst upon the island at the end of the eighth century. But, from the eleventh century onward, we have an almost unbroken series of hundreds of manuscripts in which all that had escaped destruction was collected and arranged.
Many of the tales and poems thus preserved were undoubtedly originally composed in the eighth century; some few perhaps in the seventh.
As is most probably the case with Song of the Sea, by Rónán mac Colmáin. He was was an Irish poet who died 707 so this poem most likely dates from the late 7th Century, however new evidence has shown that it might to date from the 11th-century. The mystery remains…
We hope you enjoy…………………………
A great tempest rages on the Plain of Ler,
bold across its high borders
Wind has arisen, fierce winter has slain us;
it has come across the sea,
It has pierced us like a spear.
When the wind sets from the east,
the spirit of the wave is roused,
It desires to rush past us westward to the land where sets the sun,
To the wild and broad green sea.
When the wind sets from the north,
it urges the dark fierce waves towards the southern world,
Surging in strife against the wide sky,
Listening to the witching song.
When the wind sets from the west across the salt sea of swift currents,
It desires to go past us eastward towards the Sun-Tree,
Into the broad long-distant sea.
When the wind sets from the south across the land of Saxons of mighty shields,
The wave strikes the Isle of Scit, it surges up to the summit of Caladnet,
And pounds the grey-green mouth of the Shannon.
The ocean is in flood, the sea is full,
delightful is the home of ships,
The wind whirls the sand around the estuary,
Swiftly the rudder cleaves the broad sea.
With mighty force the wave has tumbled
across each broad river-mouth,
Wind has come, white winter has slain us,
Slieve-Dremon pours forth a full stream.
Son of the God the Father, with mighty hosts,
save me from the horror of fierce tempests!
Righteous Lord of the Feast, only save me from the horrid
From Hell with furious tempest!
By Rónán mac Colmáin circa 7th Century
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