Irish text — translated from the Irish.

¹ Fifty quatrains the woman sang to Bran from unknown lands, in the middle of the house, while his royal hall full of kings was about him — they did not know from which the woman had come, for the rampart was closed.

² This is the beginning of the story. One day Bran was walking alone near his stronghold, when he heard music behind him. As often as he looked back, the music was still behind him. At last he fell asleep, lulled by the sweetness of the music. When he awoke from his sleep, he saw beside him a silver branch with white blossom, and it was not easy to tell the blossom from the branch. Then Bran took the branch in his hand into his royal hall. When the hosts were gathered in the royal hall, they saw the woman in strange clothing in the middle of the house. There she sang these fifty quatrains to Bran, and the host heard her, and they all saw the woman.

³ A branch of the apple-tree of Emain — Emain is the name of that land — she brings, a thing like to things familiar: twigs of white silver are upon it, fronds of crystal with blossom.

⁴ There is an island far away, around which seahorses course; a fair course against the white swelling wave — four pillars support it.

⁵ It is a delight to the eye, a plain of many shapes, the field on which the hosts disport; the coracle races with the chariot in the plain that is called Findarcat (“White Silver”).

⁶ Pillars of white bronze beneath it, shining through ages of beauty; a fair land through ages of bloom on which the many blossoms drop.

⁷ There is a tree in blossom there, on which birds call at the hours; it is through harmony that they are accustomed to call, all of them, at every hour.

⁸ Stones of every colour shine through the kindly, gentle plains; constant joy, a course of music, in the plain that is called Arccatnéul (“Silver Cloud”).

⁹ No harshness and no treachery in the even, familiar land; there is no rough voice against one, save sweet music that strikes the ear.

¹⁰ Without sorrow, without grief, without death, without any sickness or weakness: that is the token of Emain — there is nothing like it.

¹¹ A fair and wondrous land, a beauty beyond compare, on which the sun shines down; the like has never been found though long sought.

¹² If you have seen Aircthech (“Silver-land”) behind you, on which dragons and crystals drop, the sea washes the wave-land — clear tresses from its mane.

¹³ Wealth, treasures of every hue in Cíuin (“the Gentle Isle”), a fair land of song; listening to music so sweet, drinking the choicest wine.

¹⁴ Golden chariots in Mag Réin (“the Plain of the Sea”) rise with the tide to the sun; chariots of silver in Mag Mon (“the Plain of Sports”) — and of bronze without blemish.

¹⁵ A stud of golden-yellow horses on the strand, another stud of purple hue, and yet another stud behind them of the colour of the whole blue sky.

¹⁶ At sunrise there comes a fair man over the level plain; he rides the smooth sea-washed plain, he stirs the ocean till it is blood.

¹⁷ A host comes over the clear sea to the land where they row their coracle; they row then to the stone land, from which a hundred melodies arise.

¹⁸ They sing a delight to the host through the long ages — never sorrow; music swells with hundreds of voices, they expect neither decay nor death.

¹⁹ Many-shaped Emain by the sea — whether near, whether far — in which there are many thousands of parti-coloured women; the clear sea encircles it.

²⁰ If you have heard the sound of the music, the sigh of the little bird from Imchíuin (“the Very Gentle”), a band of women come to the playing-field where it is.

²¹ Freedom with health comes to the land where laughter rings; it is in Imchíuin with its beauty that mirth and splendour come.

²² It is everlasting peace that brings silver into the land; the crest of beauty on its rim, under whose heat the sun ever blazes.

²³ The host races across Mag Mon, a beautiful game without stint; among the parti-coloured dwellings amid the great splendour, they expect neither decay nor death.

²⁴ Listening to music at night, and going into Ildathach (“the Many-coloured Land”); a parti-coloured dwelling, a stone whose splendour is a crown, from which the white cloud shines.

²⁵ There are thrice fifty distant isles in the ocean to the west of us; each one of them is twice or thrice the size of Ireland.

²⁶ There shall come a great birth after long ages — He who will not be hidden: the son of a woman whose mate is not known, who shall seize the rule of the many thousands.

²⁷ A rule without beginning, without end; He has made the world in common; He has created earth and sea — woe to him who is under His power.

²⁸ It is He who made the heavens; happy he who has a white heart; He shall cleanse the hosts through clean water — it is He who shall heal your sickness.

²⁹ Not to all of you is my speech, though I tell its great wonders: let Bran hear of the multitude of wonders which wisdom will tell him.

³⁰ Fall not upon a bed of sloth, let not drunkenness overcome you: begin the voyage over the clear sea, that you may reach the Land of Women.

³¹ Then the woman went from them, and they knew not where she went; and she took her branch with her. The branch leapt from her hand into Bran’s hand — and there was no strength in Bran’s hand to hold the branch.

³² Then the next day Bran went onto the sea. The number of his company was thrice nine: one man over each nine of his foster-brothers and companions. When he had been two days and two nights on the sea, he saw coming towards him a man in a chariot upon the sea. The man sang thirty quatrains to him, and made himself known to him, and said that he was Manannán mac Lir; and he said that it had been destined for him to come to Ireland after long ages, and that a son would be born of him — Mongán mac Fíachnai — whose other-self he would be. Then he sang these thirty quatrains to him:

³³ Bran deems it a wondrous beauty, in his coracle over the clear sea; but to me in my chariot from far away it is a flowery plain on which he glides.

³⁴ That which is a clear sea to the goodly ship in which Bran is — to me in my two-wheeled chariot it is a flowery plain with many flowers.

³⁵ Bran sees a mass of waves beating across the clear sea; I see in Mag Mon red-tipped flowers without blemish.

³⁶ Sea-horses glisten in summer beneath the glances of Bran’s eye; flowers pour streams of honey in the land of Manannán mac Lir.

³⁷ The sheen of the sea on which you are — the great brightness round which you glide — has poured yellow and blue: it is land that is not rough.

³⁸ Speckled salmon leap from its womb, from the white sea on which you gaze: they are calves and lambs of fair colour, in friendship, without mutual slaughter.

³⁹ Though you see but a single chariot in Mag Meld (“the Pleasant Plain”) with its wealth of flowers, there are many horses along its shore — and many more that Bran has not seen.

⁴⁰ Vast the plain, numberless the host; stones shine with clear glory; a course of silver, steps of gold, proclaim the gladness of every sport.

⁴¹ A pleasant, delightful game they play, in fair contest, men and gentle women under a bush, without sin, without transgression.

⁴² It is along the top of a wood that your coracle has sailed over the ridges — there is a wood laden with fruit under the prow of your little skiff.

⁴³ A wood with blossom and fruit, on which the vine’s true fragrance lies; a wood without decay, without defect, with leaves of golden hue.

⁴⁴ There is a fort from the beginning of creation, without age, without the crumbling of earth; we do not expect to perish of hunger — sin has not come to us.

⁴⁵ An evil hour when the serpent came to the father in his citadel: it perverted the law in that time — from where came decay that was not.

⁴⁶ It struck us in its cross and greed, by which it destroyed its noble children: decay, a withered body, the blood of pain, and an eternal dwelling of horror.

⁴⁷ It is the law of pride in that time — faith in a creature, forgetfulness of God: the defeat of sickness and age, the soul’s death through pride.

⁴⁸ There shall come a noble high king — Christ — from the King who made the world; a fair law which shall subdue the seas; though He be God, He shall be man.

⁴⁹ In the shape in which you see me, I shall come to your country: a journey lies before me to my house, to the woman in Line Mag (“the Plain of the Pool”) — the conception of Mongán.

⁵⁰ It shall be Manannán mac Lir in the chariot, in the man’s shape, who shall be born — a fair son in a bright body of clay: namely, Mongán.

⁵¹ Cáintigern shall conceive by Manannán mac Lir in a swift union: her son shall be born into the world as a glorious one — Fiachna’s son shall acknowledge him.

⁵² He shall tell the wonders of every síd, he shall be the darling of every good land, he shall reveal the secrets of the knowledge of kings in the world without concealing.

⁵³ He shall be in the shape of every beast, both in the blue sea and on land; he shall be a dragon before hosts in battle, he shall be a wolf of every great wood.

⁵⁴ He shall be a stag with silver horns in the field where chariots are driven; he shall be a speckled salmon in a full pool; he shall be a seal, he shall be a fair white swan.

⁵⁵ Throughout the long ages — after death, in the future body — a hundred years in fair kingship: the graves of the far lands shall pour forth, the great wheel shall turn red.

⁵⁶ With kings among warriors he shall be a champion of valour for ever; in the dark house of the tomb, O man, his fame shall be cast abroad.

⁵⁷ A hero who shall be born of kings shall be called the son of Manannán mac Lir — his father and his prophet, though he be Fiachna’s son.

⁵⁸ His span shall be short in the body: fifty years in the world — a stone cast by a dragon out of the sea into the contest at Senlabair shall slay him: Mongán’s guest.

⁵⁹ He shall foretell a drink from Loch Léin when he looks upon the blood-red sign: the fair host beneath the wheel of the clouds shall seize him, though he shall not escape it.

⁶⁰ Bran’s course shall be set towards the Land of Women: Emain with its manifold bright hues he shall reach before the setting of the sun.

⁶¹ Then Bran went from him until he saw the island. He rowed round about it, and a great host was there laughing and laughing aloud. Bran and his people all looked at them, but they would not stay to speak with them. They kept casting laughter at them. Bran sent one of his men onto the island. He joined the company and began to laugh like the other men of the island. Bran kept rowing round the island. Whenever his man tried to come past Bran, his comrades would answer him — but he would not speak to them; he would only look at them and laugh at them. The name of that island is Inis Subai — the Island of Joy. They left him there then.

⁶² It was not long after that before they reached the Land of Women. They saw the leader of the women in the harbour. She said: “Come ashore, Bran mac Febal. Welcome is your coming.” Bran dared not go ashore. The woman cast a ball of thread over her shoulder straight at Bran. Bran put his hand upon the ball. The thread of the ball clung to his palm. The thread of the ball was in the woman’s hand. She pulled the currach towards the harbour. Then they went into a great house. There was a bed for each couple there — thrice nine beds. The food that was set on each dish never grew less. They were a year — as it seemed to them — being there. Yet it chanced to be many years. No savour was lacking to them.

⁶³ A longing for home seized one of them — Nechtán mac Collbrain. His kindred begged Bran to go with him back to Ireland. The woman said it would be a cause of regret. They consented, and the woman said that none of them should touch the land, and that they should take with them the man they had left in the Island of Joy.

⁶⁴ Then they went until they reached the gathering at Srúb Brain. The people there asked them who had come over the sea. Bran said: “I am Bran mac Febal.” “We do not know him,” said the other; “but the Voyage of Bran is among our ancient stories.”

⁶⁵ Then one of the men leapt from the currach. As soon as he touched the soil of Ireland, he became a heap of ashes, as though he had been in the earth through many hundreds of years. Then Bran sang this quatrain:

For Collbrai’s son great was the folly to lift his hand against his age: no one cast a wave of clean water over Nechtán, Collbrai’s son.

⁶⁶ Then Bran told all his wanderings from the beginning to that host of the assembly; and he wrote these quatrains in ogham, and bade them farewell after that; and nothing is known of his wanderings from that time forth.