An Exile’s Dream
It would be pleasant, O Son of my God,
in wondrous voyagings
to travel over the deluge-fountained
wave to Ireland;
To Mag nEolairg, by Benevenagh,
across Lough Foyle,
where I might hear tuneful music
from the swans.
If the Red Dewy One
were to reach welcoming
Port na Ferg, the flocked seagulls
would rejoice at our swift sailing.
Away from Ireland sorrow
filled me when I was powerful,
making me tearful and sad
in a strange land.
Grievous was that journey enjoined on me,
O King of Mysteries:
ah, would that I had never gone
to the battle of Cúl Dreimne!
Happy for Dímma’s son
in his holy abbey,
where I might hear what would delight my mind in Durrow
in the west:
The sound of the wind in the elm
making music for us,
and the startled cry of the pleasant grey blackbird
when she has clapped her wings;
Listening early in Ross Grencha
to the stags,
and to cuckoos calling from the woodland
on the brink of summer.
I have loved the lands of Ireland
to pass the night with Comgall, to visit Cainnech—
how pleasant that would be!