A Celtic Psaltery written by Alfred Perceval Graves
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8 A CELTIC PSALTERY
Being Mainly Renderings in English Verse from Irish & Welsh Poetry
by
ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES
The F. A. Stokes Company
443-449 Fourth Avenue
New York
Published in England by
The Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge
68 Haymarket, London
1917
DEDICATION
TO THE
RIGHT HON. DAVID LLOYD GEORGE
PRIME MINISTER OF GREAT BRITAIN AND IRELAND
This Psaltery of Celtic Songs
To you by bounden right belongs;
For ere War's thunder round us broke,
To your content its chord I woke,
Where Cymru's Prince in fealty pure
Knelt for his Sire's Investiture.
Nor less these lays are yours but more,
In memory of the Eisteddfod floor
You flooded with a choral throng
That poured God's praise a whole day long.
But most, O Celtic Seer, to you
This Song Wreath of our Race is due,
Since high o'er hatred and division,
You have scaled the Peak and seen the Vision
Of Freedom, breaking into birth
From out an agonising Earth.
PREFACE
I have called this volume of verse a Celtic Psaltery because it mainly
consists of close and free translations from Irish, Scotch Gaelic, and
Welsh Poetry of a religious or serious character. The first half of the
book is concerned with Irish poems. The first group of these starts with
the dawning of Christianity out of Pagan darkness, and the
spiritualising of the Early Irish by the wisdom to be found in the
conversations between King Cormac MacArt--the Irish ancestor of our
Royal Family--and his son and successor, King Carbery. Here also will be
found those pregnant ninth-century utterances known as the "Irish
Triads."
Next follow poems attributed or relating to some of the Irish
saints--Patrick, Columba, Brigit, Moling; Lays of Monk and Hermit,
Religious Invocations, Reflections and Charms and Lamentations for the
Dead, including a remarkable early Irish poem entitled "The Mothers'
Lament at the Slaughter of the Innocents" and a powerful peasant poem,
"The Keening of Mary." The Irish section is ended by a set of songs
suggested by Irish folk-tunes.
Of the early Irish Religious Poetry here translated it may be observed
that the originals are not only remarkable for fine metrical form but
for their cheerful spirituality, their open-air freshness and their
occasional touches of kindly humour. "Irish religious poetry," it has
been well said, "ranges from single quatrains to lengthy compositions
dealing with all the varied aspects of religious life. Many of them give
us a fascinating insight into the peculiar character of the early Irish
Church, which differed in so many ways from the Christian world. We see
the hermit in his lonely cell, the monk at his devotions or at his work
of copying in the scriptorium or under the open sky; or we hear the
ascetic who, alone or with twelve chosen companions, has left one of the
great monasteries in order to live in greater solitude among the woods
or mountains, or on a lonely island. The fact that so many of these
poems are fathered upon well-known saints emphasises the friendly
attitude of the native clergy towards vernacular poetry."[A]
I have endeavoured as far as possible to preserve in my translations
both the character of these poems and their metrical form. But the
latter attempt can be only a mere approximation owing to the strict
rules of early Irish verse both as regards alliteration and vowel
consonance. Still the use of the "inlaid rhyme" and other assonantal
devices have, it is to be hoped, brought my renderings nearer in vocal
effect to the originals than the use of more familiar English verse
methods would have done.
The same metrical difficulties have met me when translating the Welsh
sacred and spiritual poems which form the second division of this
volume. But they have been more easy to grapple with--in part because I
have had more assistance in dealing with the older Cymric poems from my
lamented friend Mr. Sidney Richard John and other Welsh scholars, than I
had in the case of the early Irish lyrics--in part because the later
Welsh poems which I have rendered into English verse are generally in
free, not "strict," metres, and therefore present no great difficulty to
the translator.
The poems in the Welsh section are, roughly speaking, arranged in
chronological order. The early Welsh poets Aneurin and Llywarch Hen are
represented by two singular pieces, Llywarch Hen's curious "Tercets" and
Aneurin's "Ode to the Months." In both of these, nature poetry and
proverbial philosophy are oddly intermingled in a manner reminiscent of
the Greek Gnomic Poets. Two examples are given of the serious verse of
Dafydd ab Gwilym, a contemporary of Chaucer, who though he did not, like
Wordsworth, read nature into human life with that spiritual insight for
which he was so remarkable, yet as a poet of fancy, the vivid, delicate,
sympathetic fancy of the Celt, still remains unmatched. Amongst
Dafydd's contemporaries and successors, Iolo Goch's noble poem, "The
Labourer," very appropriate to our breadless days, Lewis Glyn Cothi's
touching elegy on his little son John, and Dr. Sion Cent's epigrammatic
"The Noble's Grave" have been treated as far as possible in the metres
of the originals, and I have gone as near as I could to the measures of
Huw Morus' "The Bard's Death-Bed Confession," Elis Win's "Counsel in
view of Death," and the Vicar Pritchard's "A Good Wife."
A word or two about these famous Welsh writers: Huw Morus (Hugh Morris)
was the leading Welsh poet of the seventeenth century and a staunch
Royalist, who during the Civil War proved himself the equal if not the
superior of Samuel Butler as a writer of anti-Republican satire. He was
also an amatory lyrist, but closed his career as the writer of some fine
religious verses, notably this "Death-Bed Confession." Elis Win (Ellis
Wynne) was not only an excellent writer of verse but one of the masters
of Welsh prose. His "Vision of the Sleeping Bard" is, indeed, one of the
most beautifully written works in the Welsh language. Though in many
respects indebted to "Quevedo's Visions," the matter of Elis Win's book
is distinctly original, and most poetically expressed, though he is none
the less able to expose and scourge the immoralities of his age.
The Vicar Pritchard, otherwise the Rev. Rhys Pritchard, was the author
of the famous "Welshmen's Candle," "Cannwyll y Cymry," written in the
free metres, first published in 1646--completed in 1672. This consisted
of a series of moral verses in the metres of the old folk-songs
(Penillion Telyn) and remained dear to the hearts of the Welsh people
for two centuries. Next may be mentioned Goronwy Owen, educated by the
poet Lewis Morris, grandfather of the author of "Songs of Two Worlds"
and "The Epic of Hades." As the Rev. Elvet Lewis writes of him: "Here at
once we meet the true artist lost in his art. His humour is as playful
as if the hand of a stern fate had never struck him on the face. His
muse can laugh and make others laugh, or it can weep and make others
weep." A specimen is given of one of his best known poems, "An Ode on
the Day of Judgment," reproducing, as far as my powers have permitted,
its final and internal rhymes and other metrical effects.
We now reach the most individual of the modern Welsh religious and
philosophical poets, Islwyn (William Thomas), who took his Bardic title
from the hill of Islwyn in his native Monmouthshire. He was greatly
influenced by the poetry of Wordsworth, but was in no sense an imitator.
Yet whilst, in the words of one of the Triads, he possessed the three
things essential to poetic genius, "an eye to see nature, a heart to
feel nature: and courage that dares follow nature"--he steadfastly
refused to regard poetry as an art and, by declining to use the
pruning-knife, allowed the finest fruits of his poetic talents to lie
buried beneath immense accumulations of weedy and inferior growth. Yet
what his powers were may not be ill judged of, even in translation, by
the passage from his blank verse poem, "The Storm," entitled "Behind the
Veil," to be found on p. 94.
Pantycelyn (the Rev. William Williams) was a co-worker with Howel Harris
and Daniel Rowlands in the Methodist revival. Professor W.J. Gruffyd
writes of him: "It is not enough to say he was a hymnologist--he was
much more. He is the National Poet of Wales. He had certainly the
loftiest imagination of all the poets of five centuries, and his
influence on the Welsh people can be gauged by the fact that a good deal
of his idiom or dialect has fixed itself indelibly in modern literary
Welsh." The Hymn, "Marchog Jesu!" which represents him was translated by
me at the request of the Committee responsible for the Institution
Ceremony of the Prince of Wales at Carnarvon Castle.
Of the more modern Welsh poets represented in this volume let it be said
that Ceiriog (John Hughes), so called from his birth in the Ceiriog
Valley, is the Burns of Welsh Poetry. Against the spirit of gloom that
the Welsh Revival cast over the first half of the nineteenth century he
threw himself in sharp revolt. But while the joy of life wells up and
overflows in his song he was also, like all Welshmen, serious-minded,
as the specimens given in my translation from his works go to prove.
According to Professor Lewis Jones, no poem in the strict metre is more
read than Eben Farrd's "Dinistur Jerusalem" ("The Destruction of
Jerusalem"), translated into kindred verse in this volume, unless indeed
its popularity is rivalled by Hiraethog's ode on "Heddwch," ("Peace").
Two extracts from the former poem are dealt with, and Hiraethog is
represented by a beautiful fancy, "Love Divine," taken from his
"Emanuel."
Finally, three living poets are represented in the Welsh section--Elvet
Lewis by his stirring and touching "High Tide"; Eifion Wyn, upon whom
the mantle of Ceiriog has fallen, by two exquisitely simple and pathetic
poems, "Ora pro Nobis" and "A Flower-Sunday Lullaby"; and William John
Gruffydd, the bright hope of "Y Beirdd Newydd" ("The New Poets"), by his
poignant ballad of "The Old Bachelor of Ty'n y Mynydd."
There is no need for me to dwell upon the rest of the verse in this
volume beyond stating that "The Prodigal's Return" is a free translation
from a poem on that theme by an anonymous Scotch Gaelic Bard to be found
in Sinton's "The Poetry of Badenoch"; that "Let there be joy!" is
rendered from a Gaelic poem in Alexander Carmichael's "Carmina
Gadelica," and that, finally, "Wild Wine of Nature" is a pretty close
English version of a poem hardly to have been expected from that far
from teetotal Scotch Gaelic Bard, Duncan Ban McIntyre.
ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES
RED BRANCH HOUSE
LAURISTON ROAD, WIMBLEDON
July 11, 1917
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote A: From "The Ancient Poetry of Ireland," by Professor Kuno
Meyer, to whose beautiful prose translations from Irish verse in that
volume, and in his "Hail, Brigit!" I am greatly indebted.]
CONTENTS
I. IRISH POEMS
THE ISLE OF THE HAPPY
THE WISDOM OF KING CORMAC
IRISH TRIADS
LAYS OF THE IRISH SAINTS
ST. PATRICK'S BLESSING ON MUNSTER
THE BREASTPLATE OF ST. PATRICK
ST. PATRICK'S EVENSONG
ST. COLUMBA'S GREETING TO IRELAND
ST. COLUMBA IN IONA
HAIL, BRIGIT!
THE DEVIL'S TRIBUTE TO MOLING
THE HYMN OF ST. PHILIP
LAYS OF MONK AND HERMIT
THE SCRIBE
THE HERMIT'S SONG
CRINOG
KING AND HERMIT
ON AENGUS THE CULDEE
THE SHAVING OF MURDOCH
ON THE FLIGHTINESS OF THOUGHT
THE MONK AND HIS WHITE CAT
INVOCATIONS AND REFLECTIONS
A PRAYER TO THE VIRGIN
MAELISU'S HYMN TO THE ARCHANGEL MICHAEL
MAELISU'S HYMN TO THE HOLY SPIRIT
EVE'S LAMENTATION
ALEXANDER THE GREAT
THE KINGS WHO CAME TO CHRIST
QUATRAINS
CHARMS AND INVOCATIONS
LAMENTATIONS
THE SONG OF CREDE, DAUGHTER OF GUARE
THE DESERTED HOME
THE MOTHERS' LAMENT AT THE SLAUGHTER OF THE INNOCENTS
THE KEENING OF MARY
CAOINE
SONGS TO MUSIC
BATTLE HYMN
THE SONG OF THE WOODS
THE ENCHANTED VALLEY
REMEMBER THE POOR
II. WELSH POEMS
THE ODES TO THE MONTHS
THE TERCETS
HAIL, GLORIOUS LORD!
MY BURIAL
THE LAST CYWYDD
THE LABOURER
THE ELEGY ON SION GLYN
THE NOBLE'S GRAVE
THE BARD'S DEATH-BED CONFESSION
QUICK, DEATH!
COUNSEL IN VIEW OF DEATH
FROM "THE LAST JUDGMENT"
A GOOD WIFE
"MARCHOG JESU!"
THE DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM
LOVE DIVINE
BEHIND THE VEIL
THE REIGN OF LOVE
PLAS GOGERDDAN
ALL THROUGH THE NIGHT
DAVID OF THE WHITE ROCK
THE HIGH TIDE
"ORA PRO NOBIS"
A FLOWER-SUNDAY LULLABY
THE BALLAD OF THE OLD BACHELOR OF TY'N Y MYNYDD
THE QUEEN'S DREAM
THE WELSH FISHERMEN
III. OLD AND NEW TESTAMENT STUDIES
DAVID'S LAMENT OVER SAUL AND JONATHAN
THE FIERY FURNACE
RUTH AND NAOMI
THE LILIES OF THE FIELD AND THE FOWLS OF THE AIR
THE GOOD PHYSICIAN
THE SOWER
THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN
ST. MARY MAGDALEN
IV. CHURCH FESTIVALS
A CHRISTMAS COMMUNION HYMN
A CHRISTMAS CAROL OF THE EPIPHANY
A FOURTEENTH-CENTURY CAROL
EARTH'S EASTER
EASTER DAY, 1915
THE ASCENSION
WHITSUNTIDE
HARVEST HYMN
V. GOOD AND FAITHFUL SERVANTS
FATHER O'FLYNN
LADY GWENNY
OLD DOCTOR MACK
TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN OWEN
SAINT CUTHBERT
ALFRED THE GREAT
SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON
"MEN, NOT WALLS, MAKE A CITY"
FIELD-MARSHAL EARL KITCHENER
INSCRIPTION FOR A ROLL OF HONOUR IN A PUBLIC SCHOOL
AN EPITAPH
AN INTERCESSIONAL ANSWERED
VI. PERSONAL AND VARIOUS
LET THERE BE JOY!
A HOLIDAY HYMN
SUMMER MORNING'S WALK
SNOW-STAINS
REMEMBRANCE
SANDS OF GOLD
THE MOURNER
DE PROFUNDIS
IMMORTAL HOPE
WE HAD A CHILD
BY THE BEDSIDE OF A SICK CHILD
HE HAS COME BACK
SPRING'S SECRETS
THE LORD'S LEISURE
SPRING IS NOT DEAD
AIM NOT TOO HIGH
WILD WINE OF NATURE
BRIDAL INVOCATION
THE COMING OF SIR GALAHAD AND A VISION OF THE GRAIL
ASK WHAT THOU WILT
I. IRISH POEMS
THE ISLE OF THE HAPPY
(From the Early Irish)
Once when Bran, son of Feval, was with his warriors in his royal fort,
they suddenly saw a woman in strange raiment upon the floor of the
house. No one knew whence she had come or how she had entered, for the
ramparts were closed. Then she sang these quatrains of Erin, the Isle of
the Happy, to Bran while all the host were listening:
A branch I bear from Evin's apple-trees
Whose shape agrees with Evin's orchard spray;
Yet never could her branches best belauded
Such crystal-gauded bud and bloom display.
There is a distant Isle, deep sunk in shadows,
Sea-horses round its meadows flash and flee;
Full fair the course, white-swelling waves enfold it,
Four pedestals uphold it o'er the sea.
White the bronze pillars that this Fairy Curragh,[A]
The Centuries thorough, glimmering uphold.
Through all the World the fairest land of any
Is this whereon the many blooms unfold.
And in its midst an Ancient Tree forth flowers,
Whence to the Hours beauteous birds outchime;
In harmony of song, with fluttering feather,
They hail together each new birth of Time.
And through the Isle glow all glad shades of colour,
No hue of dolour mars its beauty lone.
'Tis Silver Cloud Land that we ever name it,
And joy and music claim it for their own.
Not here are cruel guile or loud resentment,
But calm contentment, fresh and fruitful cheer;
Not here loud force or dissonance distressful,
But music melting blissful on the ear.
No grief, no gloom, no death, no mortal sickness,
Nor any weakness our sure strength can bound;
These are the signs that grace the race of Evin.
Beneath what other heaven are they found?
A Hero fair, from out the dawn's bright blooming,
Rides forth, illuming level shore and flood;
The white and seaward plain he sets in motion,
He stirs the ocean into burning blood.
A host across the clear blue sea comes rowing,
Their prowess showing, till they touch the shore;
Thence seek the Shining Stone where Music's measure
Prolongs the pleasure of the pulsing oar.
It sings a strain to all the host assembled;
That strain untired has trembled through all time!
It swells with such sweet choruses unnumbered,
Decay and Death have slumbered since its chime.
Thus happiness with wealth is o'er us stealing,
And laughter pealing forth from every hill.
Yea! through the Land of Peace at every season
Pure Joy and Reason are companions still.
Through all the lovely Isle's unchanging hours
There showers and showers a stream of silver bright;
A pure white cliff that from the breast of Evin
Mounts up to Heaven thus assures her light.
Long ages hence a Wondrous Child and Holy,
Yet in estate most lowly shall have birth;
Seed of a Woman, yet whose Mate knows no man
To rule the thousand thousands of the earth.
His sway is ceaseless; 'twas His love all-seeing
That Earth's vast being wrought with perfect skill.
All worlds are His; for all His kindness cares;
But woe to all gainsayers of His Will.
The stainless heavens beneath His Hands unfolded,
He moulded Man as free of mortal stain,
And even now Earth's sin-struck sons and daughters
His Living Waters can make whole again.
Not unto all of you is this my message
Of marvellous presage at this hour revealed.
Let Bran but listen from Earth's concourse crowded
Unto the shrouded wisdom there concealed.
Upon a couch of languor lie not sunken,
Beware lest drunkenness becloud thy speech!
Put forth, O Bran, across the far, clear waters.
And Evin's daughters haply thou may'st reach.
[Footnote A: Plain or tableland such as the Curragh of Kildare.]
THE WISDOM OF KING CORMAC
(From the Early Irish)
THE DEPTHS OF KING CORMAC'S HEART
CARBERY
"Cormac, Conn's grandson, and son of great Art
Declare to me now from the depths of thy heart,
With the wise and the foolish,
With strangers and friends,
The meek and the mulish,
The old and the young,
With good manners to make God amends--
How I must govern my tongue,
And in all things comport myself purely,
The good and the wicked among."
CORMAC
"The answer thereto is not difficult surely.
Be not too wise nor too scatter-brained,
Not too conceited nor too restrained,
Be not too haughty nor yet too meek,
Too tattle-tongued or too loth to speak,
Neither too hard nor yet too weak.
If too wise you appear, folk too much will claim of you,
If too foolish, they still will be making fresh game of you,
If too conceited, vexatious they'll dub you,
If too unselfish, they only will snub you,
If too much of a tattler, you ne'er will be heeded,
If too silent, your company ne'er will be needed,
If overhard, your pride will be broken asunder,
If overweak, the folk will trample you under."
THE HOUSE OF HOSPITALITY
CARBERY
"Cormac, grandson of Conn, what dues hath a
Chief and an ale-house?"
Said Cormac: "Not hard to tell!
Good behaviour around a good Chief;
Lamps to light for the eye's relief;
Exerting ourselves for the Company's sake,
Seats assigned with no clownish mistake,
Deft and liberal measuring carvers;
Attentive and nimble-handed servers;
Moderation in music and song;
A telling of stories not too long;
The Host, to a bright elation stirred,
Giving each guest a welcoming word.
Silence during the Bard's reciting--
Each chorus in sweet concent uniting."
HOW KING CORMAC ORDERED HIS YOUTH
CARBERY
"O Cormac, grandson of Conn, say sooth,
How didst thou order thy days in youth?"
CORMAC
"Into the woods I went a-listening,
I was a gazer when stars were glistening;
Blind when secrets were plain to guess;
A silent one in the wilderness;
I was talkative with the many,
Yet, in the mead-hall, milder than any;
I was stern amid battle cries;
I was gentle towards allies;
I was a doctor unto the sick;
On the feeble I laid no stick.
Not close lest burdensome I should be;
Though wise not given to arrogancy.
I promised little, though lavish of gift;
I was not reckless though I was swift;
Young, I never derided the old;
And never boasted though I was bold;
Of an absent one no ill would I tell;
I would not reproach, though I praised full well;
I never would ask but ever would give,
For a kingly life I craved to live!"
THE WORST WAY OF PLEADING
CARBERY
"O Cormac Mac Art, of Wisdom exceeding,
What is the evilest way of pleading?"
Said Cormac: "Not hard to tell!
Against knowledge contending;
Without proofs, pretending;
In bad language escaping;
A style stiff and scraping;
Speech mean and muttering,
Hair-splitting and stuttering;
Uncertain proofs devising;
Authorities despising;
Scorning custom's reading;
Confusing all your pleading;
To madness a mob to be leading;
With the shout of a strumpet
Blowing one's own trumpet."
KING CORMAC'S WORST ENEMY
"O Cormac Mac Art, of your enemies' garrison,
Who is the worst for your witty comparison?"
Said Cormac: "Not hard to tell!
A man with a satirist's nameless audacity;
A man with a slave-woman's shameless pugnacity;
One with a dirty dog's careless up-bound,
The conscience thereto of a ravening hound.
Like a stately noble he answers all speakers
From a memory full as a Chronicle-maker's,
With the suave behaviour of Abbot or Prior,
Yet the blasphemous tongue of a horse-thief liar
And he wise as false in every grey hair,
Violent, garrulous, devil-may-care.
When he cries, 'The case is settled and over!'
Though you were a saint, I swear you would swear!"
IRISH TRIADS
(By an unknown Author of the ninth century)
Three signs whereby to mark a man of vice
Are hatred, bitterness, and avarice.
Three graceless sisters in the bond of unity
Are lightness, flightiness, and importunity.
Three clouds, the most obscuring Wisdom's glance,
Forgetfulness, half-knowledge, ignorance.
Three savage sisters sharpening life's distress,
Foul Blasphemy, Foul Strife, Foul-mouthedness.
Three services the worst for human hands,
A vile Lord's, a vile Lady's, a vile Land's.
Three gladnesses that soon give way to griefs,
A wooer's, a tale-bearer's, and a thief's.
Three signs of ill-bred folk in every nation--
A visit lengthened to a visitation,
Staring, and overmuch interrogation.
Three arts that constitute a true physician:
To cure your malady with expedition.
To let no after-consequence remain,
And make his diagnosis without pain.
Three keys that most unlock our secret thinking
Are love and trustfulness and overdrinking.
Three nurses of hot blood to man's undoing--
Excess of pride, of drinking, and of wooing.
Three the receivers are of stolen goods:
A cloak, the cloak of night, the cloak of woods.
Three unions, each of peace a proved miscarriage,
Confederate feats, joint ploughland, bonds of marriage.
Three lawful hand-breadths for mankind about the body be,
From shoes to hose, from ear to hair, from tunic unto knee.
Three youthful sisters for all eyes to see,
Beauty, desire, and generosity.
Three excellences of our dress are these--
Elegance, durability, and ease.
Three idiots of a bad guest-house are these--
A hobbling beldam with a hoicking wheeze,
A brainless tartar of a serving-girl,
For serving-boy a swinish lubber-churl.
Three slender ones whereon the whole earth swings--
The thin milk stream that in the keeler sings;
The thin green blade that from the cornfield springs;
That thin grey thread the housewife's shuttle flings.
The three worst welcomes that will turn a guest-house
For weary wayfarers into a Pest-house--
Within its roof a workman's hammer beat;
A bath of scalding water for your feet;
With no assuaging draught, salt food to eat.
Three finenesses that foulness keep from sight--
Fine manners in the most misfeatured wight;
Fine shapes of art by servile fingers moulded;
Fine wisdom from a cripple's brain unfolded.
Three fewnesses that better are than plenty:
A fewness of fine words--but one in twenty;
A fewness of milch cows, when grass is shrinking;
Fewness of friends when beer is best for drinking.
Three worst of snares upon a Chieftain's way:
Sloth, treachery, and evil counsel they!
Three ruins of a tribe to west or east:
A lying Chief, false Brehon, lustful Priest.
The rudest three of all the sons of earth:
A youngster of an old man making mirth;
A strong man at a sick man poking fun;
A wise man gibing at a foolish one.
Three signs that show a fop: the comb-track on his hair;
The track of his nice teeth upon his nibbled fare;
His cane-track on the dust, oft as he takes the air.
Three sparks that light the fire of love are these--
Glamour of face, and grace, and speech of ease.
Three steadinesses of wise womanhood--
steady tongue through evil, as through good;
A steady chastity, whoso else shall stray;
Steady house service, all and every day.
Three sounds of increase: kine that low,
When milk unto their calves they owe;
The hammer on the anvil's brow,
The pleasant swishing of the plough.
Three sisters false: I would! I might! I may!
Three fearful brothers: Hearken! Hush! and Stay!
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