Purchase your father's poem, Aenghus,
the house of the king is yours,
you are the tree's root and blossom:
all say it's right you buy it.
To you he left his position,
yours each breastplate, each treasure,
his hats, his staves, his slender swords,
yours, his brown ivory chessmen.
Yours your father's hounds' slender chains,
each treasure chest's in your share;
all his houses and his tax,
yours, Domhnall's horses and herds.
In his legacy he has left you
each house from Mull to the Mull.
Yours, Aenghus, are the ships he left,
arch of green-branched Druim Cain.
Yours his assembly and swift steeds,
yours his farmers, loyal to you,
you are the son who leads our battles,
yours, what your father owes me.
Admit you should buy my poetry,
sheer summit, Bann's fierce one.
If you don't, tell another story:
I'll load your claim upon you.
I'm jealous of the wealth poets
get from you. Loch Ce's lion.
Who knows if the envy's proper:
I'm smothered by sea-terror!
Coire Da Ruadh, Tuam's king,
lies between us, it's my fear.
Coire Bhrecain's part of my path,
a groan of fear has grabbed me.
No less is Coire Bhrecain's case,
being between us, music-king;
its pride when it is in anger
warps the sturdy masts of sails.
I say, for fear of the tempest,
lord of Coll, woman's friend,
over sea to Aenghus of Islay
sad there's not one dash of land.
One of my feet I put before me,
king of Lewis, in the ship,
the other foot behind as prop,
brown-haired patron, when going east.
I'd be bad on the savage sea
at taking an oar, blue-eyed one:
on a peaceful river, I quiver
taking the rudder of a boat.
The right way to arrange myself
I don't know, crossing the waves;
I don't know if sitting's better,
I'm afraid to lie in the ship.
It's my grip, grabbing it to me,
which holds the ship, Ireland's king;
lest the thwack of the waves break it,
I keep the ship's sides in my hand.
In my home-country people ask,
Norsemen's king, how a ship's made.
There's little to see of the sea
from the highest steep height there.
Though there were land to the sunrise,
I'd find more dangerous, near you,
what there was, Aenghus, to Scotland,
of white, green-washed, swelling sea.
Your father proposed - the lie's pleasing�
to bear me prone in his galley,
me on a bed from Ireland to Scotland
proposed fair-haired Conn's offspring.
My snatching without my knowing
the blue-eyed king set about:
the great gentle one hatched a plot
while I was sleeping off my wine.
I hate the leap of the sailing galleys,
your ship's yard-arm was not turned;
Mac Domhnaill from Ceis Cairrgi,
beneath you the sea's wave-ridge roared.
Attacking a strand, frequent raids,
these your wish for yonder folk;
often from now a tide of blood
lapping splendid Innse Gall.
You've circled Ireland, scarce the shore
where you've not taken cattle;
nimble galleys are sailed by you
you're otter-like, branch of Tara.
To Loch Foyle, on to Erris,
you go straight from Innse Gall;
Erris harbour, truth's fountain,
there you discovered Islay's host.
Islay's host, with you by Aran
to prove their feats, far as Loch Con;
that fair host of Islay's taken
cattle from placid Innse Modh.
Your fleet has reached Corco Mruadh,
Corco Baisginn by its side;
from Galway-foot to Cuil Cnamha,
you, a salmon who probes each strand
Mac Domhnaill, heir of Manannan,
His battle's been in Dun Baloir,
Till he came, bright stalk of Gabhair,
the lad who brought Ireland from bondage.
Your forebear, Sil Cholla
Cairbre Lifechair, Warrior of Mis
when Conn's offspring died - Gabhair's veteran -
the ridge of Ireland's fortune broke.
Torcuill, Imhar and Amhlaibh
surround you, Loch Riach's man,
the earth's wave of ruin in fury,
bright-hazelled Dublin's host.
Clann Somhairlidh, Sil Gofraidh,
whence you're born, they hoarded no herds;
well-plotted orchard, apple branch,
noble all blood from which you come.
Sil Cellaigh about you in Ireland,
the Airghialla in Innse Liag,
vie family tree's branches, you've heard:
I have visited them all.
n Ireland or Scotland there is not
an Aenghus like you, slim flank.
The Aenghuses of the Brugh's green-washed turf
send to you, Aenghus, gifts.
