Carroll’s Sword

Court poetry is a peculiar and unattractive form, and to me always
reminiscent of an illuminated address or a song for Reverend Mother’s
feast day. But every great Irish family kept a poem-book in the way in
which we keep photograph albums. Early court poetry—particularly the
poetry in epigram—is relatively fresh. Carroll was King of Leinster at
the end of the ninth century.

O swinging sword of Carroll hail!
Often the shuttle of the war,
  Often sustaining fight,
  Splitting the necks of kings.

Often abroad on plunder bent,
Companion of sagacious lords,
  Often sharing a spoil
  With kings who shared your worth.

Often sustained by some bright hand
Where Leinstermen were gathered in,
  Often in mighty hosts,
  Often with princely stock.

Many the masters that you served,
For whom you plied a stirring fight;
  Many the shield you clove,
  The breast, the skull, the skin.

For forty years unstained with grief
With Enda of the surging hosts—
  You never faced a fight
  But in some fierce king’s hand.

To Dowling Enda gave you up,
To his own son—no trifling gift;
  Him you served thirty years
  And brought him death at last.

Many a king on mettled horse
Before you stepped at Diarmuid’s side,
  And so for sixteen years
  You were his prop in war.

At Allen’s fair you changed your lords;
Grim Diarmuid yielded you in turn;
  The good king passed you on
  To Murigan of Marg.

Another forty years you passed
In the strong hand of Allen’s king,
  No year without a fight
  For mighty Murigan.

In Wexford from the Danish king’s
You passed to Carroll’s hand at last:
  Carroll gave you to none
  While the gold earth he trod.

Crimson he dyed your bright blue point
In Ogva of the Foreigners;
  You left Hugh Findlay low
  In Ogva of wide paths.

That edge of yours was blooded too
In Balagh Moon, your worth approved,
  And in Moy Alvey’s fight
  When desperate deeds were done.

On Thursday at Dun Oughter’s charge
Before you broke the splendid host,
  When brave and boisterous Hugh
  Was left dead on the hill.

The day that Kelly fell, from you
The great battalion rushed in flight;
  The son of Flanagan
  At lofty Tara slain.

But day of rout you never knew
With Carroll of the gracious guards
  Who never swore untruth,
  Never his word belied.

No day of mourning did you know
But many a night of war-faring;
  You had good lords, good luck
  And many a brilliant fight.

But who can now the trust maintain
Or whom in ruin will you smite?
  Now Carroll lives no more
  Who’ll share his bed with you?

You need not fear, you will not stray
Till Naas in triumph see you come
  Where Fionn of feasts is throned
  There they shall cry “All hail!”

               Dallan Mac More


Source: O'Connor, Frank (tr); Kings, Lords, & Commons: An Anthology
from the Irish; 1962; London; Macmillan & Co; p.41