The corpus of early Irish poetry contains a tiny selection of lyrics, usually anonymous, ascribed to fictitious authors or to famous individuals by the use of masks. There are no great epic poems, but the sagas are frequently composed in a combination of prose and poetry; these contain most early lyrics. A few exceptional sagas are presented in meter alone. Some lyrics appear on the margins of manuscripts and as verses illustrative of unusual meters in the metrical tracts. The eleventh century religious poet Mael-Isu Ua Brolchain is one of the few names that appear in this period. His compositions included the bilingual Deus, meus.
The earliest pieces are in rose, a style of meter without rhyme, rhythm, or stanzas, depending on linking and internal alliteration. The earliest example is the eulogy to Colm Cille, composed by Eochaid Dallan Forgaill circa 600. It begins:
God, God, may I beg of him before I go to face Him Through the chariots of battle. God of heaven, may He not leave me in the path where there’s screaming From the weight of oppression.
Over a period of time, possibly influenced by the new Latin poetry, there developed the new meters based on syllabic count that lasted until the seventeenth century. These contain stanzas, alliteration, consonance, and rhyme that are impossible to illustrate in translation.
Prosimetrum, the combination of prose and poetry, is unusually common in early Irish sagas. Although some sagas contain no poetry, most prose tales include poems that appear at points of high emotion. The poem by Liadain from the saga The meeting of Liadain and Cuirithir, where she bemoans hurting her lover, Cuirithir, by entering a convent, for example:
Without pleasure the deed that I have done; the one loved I have vexed (tormented.) I am Lfadan; I loved Cuirithir, It is as true as is said. A roar of fire has split my heart; for certain, without him it will not live.
Many of the early lyrics are characterized by a love of nature and an appreciation of birds and of animals:
The little bird that has whistled from the end of a bill bright-yellow.
There is also a strong tendency for the use of masks throughout, and nearly a total absence of personal, emotional poetry. In the poem about his cat, White Pangur, the persona of the poet is at its most immediate here, and the voice feels modern, individual, and self-reflective:
I and white Pangur practice each of us his special art: his mind is set on hunting, my mind on my special craft.
It is usual, at times, for a mouse to stick in his net, as a result of warlike battlings. for my part, into my net falls some difficult rule of hard meaning.
These poets use older, preestablished masks that depend on the audience recognizing the character, for example, Finn Mac Cumaill:
I have tidings for you: the stag bells; winter pours; summer is gone;
Wind is high and cold; the sun is low; its course is short; the sea runs strongly . . .
Many masks are female; they give a male poet the power to express emotions that might otherwise be seen as female fragility. One historical female poet, Uallach daughter of Muinechan, appears in the annals, and the following poem, the Caillech Berre, may have been composed by a woman.
Ebb-tide to me as to the sea; old age causes me to be sallow; although I may grieve thereat, It comes to its food joyfully.
I am the Old Woman of Beare, from Dursey; I used to wear a smock that was always new. Today I am become so thin that I would not Wear out even a cast-off smock.
Religious poetry also uses masks, for example, Colm Cille:
My hand is weary with writing; my sharp great point is not thick; my slender-beaked pen juts forth a beetle-hued draught of bright blue ink.
The early lyrical hymns remain anonymous:
Shame to my thoughts how they stray from me! I dread great danger from it on the day of lasting doom.
Finally, there are those stray stanzas, personal, funny, and touching:
I do not know who Etan will sleep with, but I do know that blond Etan Will not sleep alone.
He’s my heart, a grove of nuts, he’s my boy, here’s a kiss for him.
Bitter is the wind tonight, it tosses the sea’s white hair; I do not fear the wild warriors from Norway, Who course on a quiet sea.
