Stokes, Revue Celtique 14 (1893) — translated from the Irish.

³ An abstract of the following story may be found in O’Curry’s Lectures on the Manuscript Materials of Ancient Irish History, pp. 289–293, and two short passages of it are translated in p. dclxii of the third volume of his Manners and Customs of the Ancient Irish. An abridged and not very accurate German translation of sections 1–76 has been printed by Zimmer in the Zeitschrift für deutsches Alterthum, XXXIV, 183–197. But no part of the text has been published except section 77, which is given by Zimmer, without a translation, at the end of his version, and the first quatrain of which is printed, rather incorrectly, in p. 593 of O’Curry’s Lectures. The bulk of the following text is taken from the Book of Fermoy, a fifteenth-century vellum now in the library of the Royal Irish Academy. The tale begins in this MS. at p. 169 and ends on p. 177. But as p. 169 is in many places illegible, the first twelve paragraphs are here printed from a paper copy in the same library, written at Carrignavar in 1744, and marked 23 M 50. This MS, which is often very corrupt, and omits sections 68–71, is denoted by M.

⁴ The first ten lines of the Book of Fermoy copy (hereafter called F) are tolerably legible. They run thus: In nomine trino. Flathbrughaidh cétach comrumach rochineastar do cuigid Connacht .i. Conall Dercc ua Corra Fhind. [“In the threefold name. A lordly hospitaller, rich in hundreds and victorious, was born in the province of Connacht, namely Conall Derg ua Corra Finn.”] Of the following lines only scattered words can be read; in lines 16–21 we can read: “… their having no worthy children, and not that they had no children, but that they did not live for them — they died at once after their birth. The hospitaller said to his wife at night in their bed: ‘It is ill with us,’ said he, ’that we have no son who would be a worthy heir in our place after us.’ ‘What do you want of that?’ said the wife.” In lines 22–23 we can only read with certainty dennum and comarba. Lines 25–33 are for the most part legible: “… will be in our place after us.’ ‘Let it be done so,’” said the wife. They then made a fast to the Devil, and the woman was pregnant at once, and she bore her pregnancy for nine months. Then pangs of strength and mighty throes came upon her, and she brought forth three sons at one birth — a son at the beginning of the night, a son at midnight, and a son at the night’s end. They were baptised in the heathen baptism, and these were their names: Lóchán and Énna and Silvester. And they were reared and fostered thereafter." Of the next lines only these words can be read: “… triumphs of field and house, surpassing their contemporaries … on the housetop of their father and mother …”

⁵ Then for nine lines the second column goes on continuously thus: “… out of weariness of service and driving, the people of the house said: ‘We find no fault in those three,’ said they, ‘save their being in the Devil’s possession.’ ‘It is grievous to us therefore,’ said they, ’not to make plunder and ravage and persecution of the Devil’s enemies, if he is our lord — namely, to kill clerics and to burn and plunder churches.’” Thereupon those sons arose and took their arms, and came to Tuaim dá Gualann, and plundered and burned the town …" Of the rest of the column only scattered words can be read: “… the town. It is then that the Uí Chorra resolved not to kill the cleric or burn the town until … cattle and chattels of the town should come … and food was given them until they were drunken and merry. Couches were spread … for them.”

⁶ A Voyage of the Húi Corra (Immram hua Corra) is mentioned as a tale in the Book of Leinster, p. 189c 30, and “Three Húi Corra with their seven” (Tri hui Corra cona morfeisiur per [Iesum]) are mentioned in the same MS, p. 373d 58 (= Lebar Brecc, p. 23d 63) in a litany which has been ascribed, without a particle of evidence, to Oengus the Culdee, who is supposed to have flourished in the eighth and ninth centuries. There is nothing to show that the story mentioned in the Book of Leinster was the same as the story now published, and the number (seven) of the Húi Corra’s companions in the litany differs from the number (six) in our story. All, therefore, that can be said about the date of our story must be inferred from the text itself. And from this it is clear, first, that our tale was composed after the Voyage of Mael Duin, which is referred to, or imitated, in sections 44, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 62; secondly, that it was composed while the practice of infixing personal pronouns was still in force; and, thirdly, that it was composed before the so-called consuetudinal forms in -ann, -enn became current in Middle Irish. These criteria point to the eleventh century, and the numerous corruptions in spelling or grammar may reasonably be ascribed to the fifteenth-century scribe and his predecessors.

⁷ As to the contents of our tale, the first forty-three paragraphs tell an interesting and imaginative story, and here the author attains to a certain standard of literary excellence. But the remainder of the tale is disconnected patchwork, lacking originality, and chiefly remarkable for its illustrations (sections 61, 63, 65) of the doctrine that in hell the nature of the punishment is determined by the nature of the sin. However, the parallel to the Divina Commedia in section 66 is worthy of notice, and the stories of the repentant wife (sections 56–59) and the community of Ailbhe (sections 68, 69) are not wanting in simplicity and pathos.

⁸ The metre of the poem with which our tale ends is explained in p. 62.

⁹ The various readings of M which seemed of any importance are given as footnotes, and the rarer words are collected in the glossary.

The Voyage of the Uí Chorra #

¹ A lordly hospitaller, wealthy and victorious, was once born in the fair province of Connacht — namely, Conall Derg ua Corra Finn. This was the manner of that hospitaller: a fortunate, prosperous, generous man, and his house was never found without three cries in it — the cry of the strainers straining the ale, the cry of the attendants over the cauldrons serving the hosts, and the cry of the young men over the chessboards playing games against one another. Nor was his house ever found without the three sacks: a sack of malt for the brewing-vat, a sack of wheat for feeding the guests, and a sack of salt for seasoning every food.

² His wife was Caor Derg, daughter of the airchinnech of Clochar. Now there was nothing lacking to them save that they had no worthy children — not that they had no children, but that they did not live for them: they died at once after their birth.

³ The hospitaller said to his wife at night in their bed: “It is sad for us,” said he, “that we have no son who would be a worthy heir in our place after us.”

⁴ “What do you want for that?” said the wife.

⁵ “This is what I want,” said the hospitaller: “to make a covenant with the Devil, to know whether he will give us an heir — a son or a daughter — who will take our place after us.”

⁶ “Let it be done so,” said the wife.

⁷ They then made a fast to the Devil, and the woman was pregnant at once, and she carried her pregnancy for nine months. Then mighty pangs and powerful throes came upon her, and she brought forth three sons at that great birth — a son at the beginning of the night, a son at midnight, and a son at the night’s end; and they were baptised according to the heathen baptism, and these were their names: Lóchán and Énna and Silvester.

⁸ They were reared and well fostered after that, until they were swift and daring on sea and land, until they surpassed their contemporaries in every game and every fair accomplishment, until everyone who heard or saw them at that time was full of talk and ceaseless tongues about them.

⁹ One day when they were on the housetop of their father and mother’s house, out of weariness of service and driving, the people of the house said that they found no fault or blemish in those fine, much-praised sons save their being baptised into the Devil’s possession. “It is grievous to us, then,” said they, “not to make plunder and ravage and persecution upon the Devil’s enemies, if he is our lord and master — namely, to kill clerics and to burn and plunder churches.”

¹⁰ Thereupon those sons arose and took their arms, and came to Tuaim dá Gualann, and plundered and burned the town; and they did great and terrible plundering and ravaging throughout the province of Connacht upon churches and clerics, until the evil and horror of their plundering was heard throughout the four quarters of all Ireland. For a full year they went on in that wise, until they had spoiled every second church of Connacht in that time.

¹¹ At the end of a year Lóchán said to his brothers: “We have made a great mistake,” said he, “and our lord — the Devil — will not be grateful to us for it.”

¹² “What is that?” said the other sons.

¹³ “Our grandfather — our mother’s father — has not been killed,” said he, “nor has his church been burned by us.”

¹⁴ They went to his land that day without respite or mercy.

¹⁵ Now the airchinnech was waiting for them on the green of the church, with a great gathering of his household about him, to attend them and serve them with the choicest of every food and the finest of every drink; but the plan the clerics had for them was not what the sons had — namely, to kill them and burn and plunder the church.

¹⁶ Then the Uí Chorra came to the place where the cleric was, and they took counsel not to kill the cleric or burn the town until night should come and the cattle and chattels of the town should have come to their stalls and their proper places. The cleric came with them to the town, and perceived that this resolve was in them; and he brought them into his delightful, shining grianán, and food and drink were given them until they were drunken and merry. Couches and high beds were then made ready for them.

¹⁷ Then the weight of sleep and slumber fell upon Lóchán, so that a wonderful vision was shown him: namely, he was taken to look at heaven and hell; and he awoke then. The other two also awoke, and said: “Let us rise,” said they, “to plunder and destroy the town.”

¹⁸ “It seems to me,” said Lóchán, “that that is not the right thing for us to do. For evil is the lord we have served,” said he, “and good is the Lord against whom we have made plunder and ravaging until now. And I have seen a hideous, dreadful vision — namely, I was taken to look at heaven and hell, where there were many pains on hosts of the souls of men and on demons. I saw the four rivers of hell: a river of toads, a river of serpents, a river of fire, and a river of snow. I saw the beast of hell with its many heads and legs upon it, and men of the world would die at the sight of it. Then I saw myself taken to look at heaven, and I saw the Lord Himself in His royal seat, and the bird-flock of angels making music for Him. And I saw a bright bird, whose singing was sweeter than every music — and it was Michael in the form of the bird in the presence of the Creator. This is my counsel to you,” said Lóchán: “abandon your arms, and follow God from this time.”

¹⁹ “Why so?” said Énna. “Will the Lord accept repentance from us for the great evils we have done?”

²⁰ They went to their mother’s father and asked that of him.

²¹ “He will accept it without doubt,” said he.

²² “If so,” said Lóchán, “let mass be said for us in the town there, and let us make staves of wood for our spears, and let us go to Finnian, the tutor of Ireland.”

²³ They did so. On the next day they set out for Clonard, to the place where Finnian was.

²⁴ He was then on the green of the town.

²⁵ “What have we here?” said the clerics who were with the saint.

²⁶ “It is the Uí Chorra, the plunderers,” said one of them.

²⁷ Those who were with Finnian fled and left him alone. It seemed to them that the Uí Chorra had come to kill him.

²⁸ “It is right for the clerics to flee,” said Lóchán.

²⁹ “That is certain,” said they. “Let us cast from us our staves, the remnants of our weapons, and let us make genuflection to the cleric.” They did so.

³⁰ “What do you want?” said the elder.

³¹ “We want,” said they, “faith and piety and service to God, and to leave the lord we have had until now — the Devil.”

³² “That is a good resolve,” said the cleric. “Come with me,” said the cleric, “into the town there, where the congregation is.”

³³ They went with him into the town. Then the congregation took counsel: that a son of the church should be assigned to teach them, and that they should speak with none but their tutor; and that they should be taught for a year. They were a year under that rule until they had read the canon. When that was finished for them, the congregation was thankful for their piety and their good ways.

³⁴ At the end of a year they came to Finnian and prostrated themselves before him, and said: “It is time,” said they, “that judgement be passed upon us for the great evils we have done.”

³⁵ “Why so?” said Finnian. “Is it not enough for you to be in this congregation as you are?”

³⁶ “It is not enough,” said they.

³⁷ “What are the greatest evils you have done?” said the cleric.

³⁸ “We have burned every second church of Connacht, and neither bishop nor priest took ransom or protection from us.”

³⁹ “Nothing will be accepted from you,” said Finnian, “to give your souls for the men you have killed; but one thing you can do: to build houses in the churches you burned, and to restore every other thing you destroyed in those churches. And it will give you,” said he, “the strength and power of a hundred in each of you, and it will take weariness of feet and hands and the small of the back from you, and it will give you produce and provender so that you will not be in want.”

⁴⁰ So then they set out from there to Tuaim dá Gualann, and laboured in humility there until they had renewed and restored everything they had destroyed in the town. And when a year was ended for them at church after church throughout Connacht, restoring everything they had destroyed before, they came at the end of the year to converse with Finnian.

⁴¹ “Have you finished,” said Finnian, “restoring every church you destroyed?”

⁴² “We have finished,” said they, “save one town only — Cenn Mara.”

⁴³ “Alas,” said Finnian, “that is the first town it would be right for you to restore — the town of that holy old senior, Sen-Camán of Cenn Mara. And go now, and restore that town well; and whatever judgement that holy elder passes on you, endure it patiently.”

⁴⁴ They went to Cenn Mara then, and restored everything they had destroyed there.

⁴⁵ One day as they came out over the edge of the bay, watching the sun as it went westward past them, they were greatly wondering at the course of the sun. “And where does the sun go,” said they, “when it goes under the sea? And is it not strange,” said they, “that the sea keeps its bounds, and every other water does not?”

⁴⁶ This was the counsel they took: to bring to them a certain wright who was a friend of theirs in that country, and to have a three-hide currach made for them. The currach was made so that it was a ready, strong vessel. And the reward the wright asked for making the currach was to be allowed to go with them in the currach.

⁴⁷ Now when they were about to go into the currach, they saw a band passing them — a band of jesters (crosáin). The jesters saw the currach being launched on the sea. “Who are the men launching this currach on the sea?” said they. The jester of the clergy said: “I know them: the three sons of Conall Derg ua Corra Finn of Connacht — the plunderers and marauders — going on their pilgrimage to seek the Lord on sea and ocean. But however,” said the jester, “by my word, they have no more need of going to seek heaven than I have.”

⁴⁸ “By my word,” said the chief of the clergy, “you will be long going on your pilgrimage.”

⁴⁹ “Say not so — it shall be done,” said the jester: “I will go with them on my pilgrimage now, without delay.”

⁵⁰ “We give our word,” said the jesters, “that you will not take our clothes with you, for the clothing you wear is not your own.”

⁵¹ “That will not keep me from you,” said he. All his clothes were stripped off him, and they let him go from them, furious and stark-naked, to the currach.

⁵² “What is your business, man?” said they.

⁵³ “A poor man going with you on his pilgrimage,” said he.

⁵⁴ “You shall not come,” said they, “furious and stark-naked.”

⁵⁵ “Say not so, young men,” said he, “for God’s sake! Do not refuse me, and I will make mirth and good cheer for you, and your piety will be none the less for it.”

⁵⁶ They accepted him with them, for God’s sake.

⁵⁷ They were there, then, after building a church and altar to the Lord on their own native land.

⁵⁸ “Let us go into our currach now,” said Lóchán, “since we have finished restoring the churches we destroyed, and have built a church to the Lord on our own land.”

⁵⁹ Nine, however, was their number; and among them were a bishop and a priest and a deacon. One gilla they had — he was the ninth man.

⁶⁰ Then they made earnest prayers to God that they might find fair weather, and that the Lord would quell the fury of the waves and the roaring of the sea and of the many dreadful monsters.

⁶¹ They went then into their currach and began to row, and were considering which way they should go. “The way the wind takes us,” said the bishop. Then they shipped their oars into the currach, and offered themselves to God.

⁶² A great wind then drove them into the ocean of the great sea, due west; and they were forty days and forty nights on the ocean, until God showed them many various wonders.

⁶³ First there was shown them an island full of people in mourning and sorrow. One of them went to ask tidings of the people of the island, to know why they were so. He himself fell to weeping and sorrow like all the rest.

⁶⁴ They left him there then, and rowed onward into the sea.

⁶⁵ Their jester died after that, and they were sorrowful and sad because of it. As they were there, they saw a little bird on the gunwale of the currach, and the bird said: “For God’s sake, men, tell me the cause of your sorrow.”

⁶⁶ “We had a little jester who amused us, and he died a while ago in the currach, and that is the cause of our sorrow.”

⁶⁷ “I am your jester,” said the bird, “and be not sorrowful any more, for I go to heaven now.”

⁶⁸ Then he bade them farewell.

⁶⁹ They rowed onward then for a long time, until there was shown them another wonderful island, with a beautiful bright grove of fragrant apple-trees in it. A river of most lovely wine ran through the middle of the grove. And when the wind stirred the tops of the grove, its song was sweeter than every music. The Uí Chorra ate some of the apples and drank some of the wine of the stream, so that they were satisfied at once, and felt neither wound nor sickness in them.

⁷⁰ After that they began to row for a long time, until there was shown them another island, and four companies of different people in it. The island was divided into four: a company of established, white-haired men in one part; royal warriors in the second part; youths in the third part; and gillies in the fourth part. They were all beautiful and bright. They had a game that never ceased. One of the crew went to ask tidings of them. At once he grew joyful and joined their play and their laughter, so that he himself was equally joyful and bright; and he stayed among them in the island — and the Uí Chorra were sad at that. Then they rowed onward.

⁷¹ There was shown them then another island — like a single leg standing up from the great sea — and they heard great shouting and the conversation of the people on it above, but they could not reach the sight of them.

⁷² They left that island then, and went rowing on the sea. Then a wonderful stream came their way, in the shape of a rainbow arching up into the firmament; and not a drop of it fell out until it fell all at once back into the sea; and its sound and its noise were gentle; and they would not lift their heads from Sunday none to Saturday until Monday tierce; and the taste of honey was on it all that time.

⁷³ There was shown them then on another day a wonderful thing on the sea, and it was more wonderful than every other thing — namely, a great silver column standing in the middle of the sea, and a net cast down into the sea from its top; and that net was of silver and findruine. Lóchán put a mesh of that net — which was three half-ounces of silver and findruine — into his possession, and he brought it away with him as a token of that tale; and Maeldúin saw the same thing.

⁷⁴ They rowed onward then until there was shown them another island, and a single cleric in it. That island was beautiful, and its description was wonderful. Great crimson flowers, as broad as tablets, were in it, dripping and distilling honey. Beautiful bright birds were in it, and a ceaseless, ever-sweet music they sang. The Uí Chorra were asking tidings of the cleric. “I am one of the twelve disciples of Andrew the apostle,” said he, “and one night I forgot my night-prayer, and for that I was sent in pilgrimage into the ocean, and I am here until the end of the world; and the birds you see are the souls of holy people.”

⁷⁵ They bade him farewell then, and rowed away until they reached another island. One half of its people were dead; the other half alive. They uttered great shouts and huge cries of woe whenever the great red fiery waves of the burning sea passed over them. Great and terrible was the pain they were in; and there was a company of them with iron soles beneath their feet. They rowed away then, until they saw heavy fiery flagstones, and a great crowd upon them being burned, with red fiery spears through them. They uttered heavy great shouts. The voyagers were asking them what they were. “This is a flagstone of the flagstones of hell,” said they, “and we are souls that did not fulfil the judgement of repentance in the world; and tell every man to beware of this flagstone — for whoever comes here never leaves it for ever.”

⁷⁶ Thereupon there was shown them another wonderful bright island, with bronze ramparts around it, and a bronze net spread on its outer face. They left their currach on the strand of the sea and went towards the fortress that was in the island; and when they heard the music of the wind against the net, it cast them into a sleep for three days and three nights. Then they awoke from their sleep, and a certain woman came to them out of the fortress and greeted them. Two silver hoops were around her, and a bronze vessel in one hand, and a silver cup in the other hand. She divided food among them — like soft loaves, it seemed to them. She poured out water for them — but there was neither taste nor flavour in it — and the woman said to them: “Go your way,” said she, “for your resurrection is not here, though our race is the same.”

⁷⁷ Then they bade the woman farewell and rowed their currach on the sea, until there were shown them great many-coloured birds, and their number was past reckoning. One of the birds alighted on the gunwale of the currach.

⁷⁸ “It would be welcome,” said they, “if it were a messenger from the Lord come to bring us tidings.” The elder lifted his face upward then. “God was able for that,” said the elder.

⁷⁹ “It is indeed to speak with you that I have come,” said the bird.

⁸⁰ What colour that bird was: three bright, shining rays within her breast, like the light of the sun.

⁸¹ “From the land of Ireland am I,” said the bird, “and I am a woman’s soul, and a nun to you am I,” she said to the elder.

⁸² “Tell me clearly,” said the elder, “do you go to hell?”

⁸³ “I shall not go,” said the bird.

⁸⁴ “We give thanks to God,” said the elder, “for that He Himself has granted that we should go into hell in our bodies.”

⁸⁵ “Come then,” said the bird, “to another place, to listen to that birds. The birds you see are the souls that come out of hell on Sunday.”

⁸⁶ “Let us go hence,” said the elder. “We will go the way you go,” said they.

⁸⁷ As they were going they saw three wonderful streams across which the birds were coming: a stream of otters, a stream of eels, and a stream of black swans; and the bird said: “Let not the forms you see grieve you: for the birds you see are the souls of men being tormented for the evils they did, and the creatures in that forms are demons pursuing them,

⁸⁸ until the souls utter heavy great cries as they come fleeing from their torments by the demons. Here am I departing from you,” said the bird, “and I was not permitted to know more of your course; but someone else will tell it to you.”

⁸⁹ “Tell me,” said the elder, “what are the three most beautiful rays within your breast?”

⁹⁰ “I will tell you,” said the bird. “There was a man I tended in the world, and I did not do his will, and I did not cleave to lawful wedlock. He fell ill, and I was not with him; and I went thrice to see him — once to look at him, once to bring him food, the third time to attend him and care for him; and those are the three most beautiful rays that are in my breast — and that would have been my whole colour, had I not parted from lawful wedlock.”

⁹¹ Then the bird went from them, and bade them farewell.

⁹² There was shown them another beautiful bright island. A fair man was in it, wearing a covering of purple-headed flowers. Many birds and ever-beautiful bees were singing music at the tops of those flowers. A staid white-haired elder was playing a harp in the isle. He sang a wonderful strain, sweeter than the melodies of the world. Each of them blessed the other, and the elder told them to depart.

⁹³ They rowed from there then for a long time, until they saw a man wallowing, with a fiery flail in his hand. A huge red fiery wave kept coming over him. And whenever he lifted his head he was groaning and uttering cries of woe, enduring that pain. “What are you, man?” said they.

⁹⁴ “A man who did Sunday labour am I,” said he, “and this is my punishment; and for God’s sake make a prayer with me, that my pain may be lightened.” Then they made a prayer with him, and went on from there.

⁹⁵ There was shown them then a great miller, rough and coarse, black and sooty, hideous and ugly. Nothing was clear to them under his hand, and they could see nothing beyond him. It seemed to them there was not in the present world anything of treasures or wealth or cattle that he had not, and was putting into the mouth of the mill.

⁹⁶ “What is that you are doing, man?” said they.

⁹⁷ “I tell you,” said he, “everything that is grudged in the world — that is what I put into the mouth of this mill; and I am the miller of hell.”

⁹⁸ Then they went on from there.

⁹⁹ There was shown them then a huge horseman on the sea. A wave kept coming over him every other time, and he was crying out the next.

¹⁰⁰ “What is it that brings you to that, man?” said they.

¹⁰¹ “I will tell you,” said he. “I stole a horse from my brother,” said he, “and I rode on it on Sunday, and here am I being punished for it, and a horse of fire under me always; and that is the punishment of everyone who rides on Sunday.”

¹⁰² Then they went from there.

¹⁰³ There was shown them an island full of people, and they were weeping and crying out and in boundless mourning. Black birds with fiery beaks and red fiery nails were tearing and burning them, taking beakfuls and talonfuls out of them.

¹⁰⁴ “What are you, men?” said they.

¹⁰⁵ “We are the smiths and the metalworkers of Ireland,” said they, “and that is why

¹⁰⁶ our tongues are aflame over our heads — in return for our having inflamed every man with the work of our craft.”

¹⁰⁷ There was shown them then a great black churl, smoky and huge, and every flame that came out of his gullet was as big as a wetherskin. An iron staff in his hand as big as a mill-shaft. A bundle of firewood on his back, a six-ox load in it. The bundle was kindled every other time. He kept flinging himself under the sea to escape. Additional pain he got in a wave of fire of the sea rising over him. Then he cried out, enduring the great pain that came on him.

¹⁰⁸ “What are you, wretched man?” said they.

¹⁰⁹ “I will tell you,” said he. “A bundle of firewood I used to carry on my back every Sunday, and that is the requital laid on me for it.”

¹¹⁰ There was shown them then a fiery sea, and many men’s heads in it, and each head kept crashing against the other. “What we see is an dwelling of torment,” said the cleric to the elder. The monsters came against the innermost part of the currach.

¹¹¹ “Let not that trouble you,” said the elder. “God is able to protect us, though we are but in one skin,” said he; “and if it be His will that we should perish by them, our death cannot come against His will.”

¹¹² There was shown them then another beautiful bright island. A smooth wood in it, and it full of honey. A lovely green meadow in its middle. A sweet bright lake in it. They stayed a week in it, resting from their weariness. And as they were leaving it, a beast rose out of the lake, and it seemed to every one of them that it would attack himself, so that they trembled greatly before it — until it slipped down again into the same place as before.

¹¹³ They went out of that island onto the sea, and rowed for a long time until they found an island with the community of Ailbe of Emly in it. It was midnight when they landed. They found a spring on the strand, and it was troubled. They found another spring, and it was clear and bright. The gilla wanted a drink from the spring. “It is better to ask leave,” said the elder, “since there is someone in the island.” Then they saw a great light, and they went towards the light until they saw the twelve men saying their prayers — and they had no light but the sun-bright face of each of them. One of them came to them and greeted them, and asked tidings of them. They told him their adventures, and they asked a drink of the spring; and he said to them: “You have leave,” said he, “to fill your vessel with the water that is clearest to you, when the elder tells you.”

¹¹⁴ “Who are you?” said the gilla.

¹¹⁵ “The community of Ailbe of Emly,” said he, “and we are the crew of one of Ailbe’s currachs, and we are alive here until doom, as God appointed us, to pray for everyone who is dead upon the sea. And leave this land,” said he, “before morning, for your resurrection is not here; and if you do not go before morning, it will be worse for you — for you will find it hard, in mind and spirit, to part from what you see here; so it is better for you to go from it in the night.”

¹¹⁶ They all did as he told them.

¹¹⁷ “Shall we take with us any of the stones of the strand?” said they.

¹¹⁸ “It is better to ask leave,” said the elder.

¹¹⁹ The gilla asked again.

¹²⁰ “It is better to ask him leave,” said the elder who was in the church. “But however,” said he, “he who takes some will be sorry, and he who takes none will be sorry too.”

¹²¹ One of them took a single stone, another two stones, another three stones. When it was morning the next day, they drank draughts of the island’s water, and it cast them into a slumber from one hour to the next. After rising from their sleep they each examined their stones: one stone was glass, another was silver, another was gold. And he who had taken some was sorry, and he who had taken none was sorry — he who had taken some was sorry for how little he had taken; and thus the words of the old man were fulfilled.

¹²² There was shown them then a wonderful island. A psalm-singing, venerable elder with fair roofed churches, with beautiful bright altars. Lovely green grass in it, dew of honey on its grass. Little ever-beautiful bees and fair purple-headed birds singing music in it, so that it was entertainment enough to listen to them.

¹²³ They rowed onward then, until they saw another beautiful island. A wonderful little church in it. A single old white-haired cleric singing his prayers in it. They knocked at the door. A bright bird came to converse with them, and they told it their tidings. The bird told the elder of it. “Open to them!” said the elder. The bird opened to them, and each blessed the other, and they stayed there that night. A ministrant from heaven came to them with their portion. On the next day the elder told them to go on, for it was not there that their resurrection was destined; and he told them their future wanderings.

¹²⁴ From there they reached an island where a disciple of Christ was. That island also was wonderful. A chapel and a church in it. They sang their paternoster to God at the church door. The elder who was in the church said: “Few have prayed as our tutor Jesus prayed.” “Why so,” said the elder who was at the door, “where did you learn that?” “I am one of His disciples,” said he, “and I fled from Him and escaped over the sea, and I was cast upon this isle, and I ate some of the herbs and the fruit of the island besides, until an angel came to me from heaven and said to me: “What you have done is not right,” said he; “yet you shall be in that life without death until the end of the world.” And so I am to this day, and because of that my meal comes to me every day at none.”

¹²⁵ Then they went into one house, and heavenly food was drawn for them. When they had prayed that food might be given them all together, the angel came to them and left their meal on a flat stone before them on the strand — a loaf for each of them, and a piece of fish upon it that had every flavour each one of them desired.

¹²⁶ After that they made their farewells, and the elder told them their future course and the manner of their lives, and said to them: “You shall go from me now onto the sea, to Cape Spain, and men fishing will meet you on the sea, and they will take you with them to land. And when you come,” he said to the bishop, “bring the currach to land and kneel thrice to God; and the ground on which your face rests — the host will gather about it on every side. They will have a church and a community there; and your fame shall reach to Rome, and the successor of Peter shall bring you eastward to Rome, and that priest shall be left in the place there, and the deacon as its sacristan, and that place shall be kept in constant use for ever. And the gilla shall see the day of the Britons, and shall remain there as long as he lives.”

¹²⁷ Then they bade farewell to the elder, and left the island, and it was all fulfilled for them as he had told them, from beginning to end. The bishop came back from Rome, as we said before, and told the gilla all those tidings. The gilla related them afterwards, and those tales remained with the bishop. The bishop told them to Saebretach, bishop of his community; he told them to Mo-Cholmóc mac Colmáin in Aran; therefore the bishop spoke these words:

The Uí Chorra of Connacht, without reproach by wave-storms, over the sea’s fierce roaring expanse to learn the wonderful wonder — ¹²⁸ their little bark, enduring, blessed,
on a course steady and strong.
They bore our pilgrimage
against the blowing of the bitter wind,

¹²⁹ for the forgiveness of our sins —
there is cause for questioning in it.
We chose this devotion;
thanks be to the Mighty One —

¹³⁰ though we earned a curse,
we did not destroy our testament.
They bowed their heads,
this clan of the Uí Chorra.

That is the Voyage of the currach of the Uí Chorra thus far.