Argument. Baile and Aillinn were lovers, but Aengus, the Master of Love, wishing them to be happy in his own land among the dead, told to each a story of the other’s death, so that their hearts were broken and they died.
| I hardly hear the curlew cry, |
| Nor the grey rush when the wind is high, |
| Before my thoughts begin to run |
| On the heir of Ulad, Buan’s son, |
| Baile, who had the honey mouth; |
| And that mild woman of the south, |
| Aillinn, who was King Lugaid’s heir. |
| Their love was never drowned in care |
| Of this or that thing, nor grew cold |
| Because their bodies had grown old. |
| Being forbid to marry on earth, |
| They blossomed to immortal mirth. |
| About the time when Christ was born, |
| When the long wars for the White Horn |
| And the Brown Bull had not yet come, |
| Young Baile Honey-Mouth, whom some |
| Called rather Baile Little- Land, |
| Rode out of Emain with a band |
| Of harpers and young men; and they |
| Imagined, as they struck the way |
| To many-pastured Muirthemne, |
| That all things fell out happily, |
| And there, for all that fools had said, |
| Baile and Aillinn would be wed. |
| They found an old man running there: |
| He had ragged long grass- coloured hair; |
| He had knees that stuck out of his hose; |
| He had puddle-water in his shoes; |
| He had half a cloak to keep him dry, |
| Although he had a squirrel’s eye. |
| O wandering birds and rushy beds, |
| You put such folly in our heads |
| With all this crying in the wind; |
| No common love is to our mind, |
| And our poor Kate or Nan is less |
| Than any whose unhappiness |
| Awoke the harp-strings long ago. |
| Yet they that know all things but know |
| That all this life can give us is |
| A child’s laughter, a woman’s kiss. |
| Who was it put so great a scorn |
| In the grey reeds that night and morn |
| Are trodden and broken by the herds, |
| And in the light bodies of birds |
| The north wind tumbles to and fro |
| And pinches among hail and snow? |
| That runner said: ‘I am from the south; |
| I run to Baile Honey-Mouth, |
| To tell him how the girl Aillinn |
| Rode from the country of her kin, |
| And old and young men rode with her: |
| For all that country had been astir |
| If anybody half as fair |
| Had chosen a husband anywhere |
| But where it could see her every day. |
| When they had ridden a little way |
| An old man caught the horse’s head |
| With: “You must home again, and wed |
| With somebody in your own land.” |
| A young man cried and kissed her hand, |
| “O lady, wed with one of us”; |
| And when no face grew piteous |
| For any gentle thing she spake, |
| She fell and died of the heart-break.’ |
| Because a lover’s heart’s worn out, |
| Being tumbled and blown about |
| By its own blind imagining, |
| And will believe that anything |
| That is bad enough to be true, is true, |
| Baile’s heart was broken in two; |
| And he, being laid upon green boughs, |
| Was carried to the goodly house |
| Where the Hound of Ulad sat before |
| The brazen pillars of his door, |
| His face bowed low to weep the end |
| Of the harper’s daughter and her friend. |
| For although years had passed away |
| He always wept them on that day, |
| For on that day they had been betrayed; |
| And now that Honey-Mouth is laid |
| Under a cairn of sleepy stone |
| Before his eyes, he has tears for none, |
| Although he is carrying stone, but two |
| For whom the cairn’s but heaped anew. |
| We hold, because our memory is |
| So full of that thing and of this, |
| That out of sight is out of mind. |
| But the grey rush under the wind |
| And the grey bird with crooked bill |
| Have such long memories that they still |
| Remember Deirdre and her man; |
| And when we walk with Kate or Nan |
| About the windy water-side, |
| Our hearts can hear the voices chide. |
| How could we be so soon content, |
| Who know the way that Naoise went? |
| And they have news of Deirdre’s eyes, |
| Who being lovely was so wise— |
| Ah! wise, my heart knows well how wise. |
| Now had that old gaunt crafty one, |
| Gathering his cloak about him, run |
| Where Aillinn rode with waiting-maids, |
| Who amid leafy lights and shades |
| Dreamed of the hands that would unlace |
| Their bodices in some dim place |
| When they had come to the marriage-bed, |
| And harpers, pacing with high head |
| As though their music were enough |
| To make the savage heart of love |
| Grow gentle without sorrowing, |
| Imagining and pondering |
| Heaven knows what calamity; |
| ‘Another’s hurried off,’ cried he, |
| ‘From heat and cold and wind and wave; |
| They have heaped the stones above his grave |
| In Muirthemne, and over it |
| In changeless Ogham letters writ— |
| Baile, that was of Rury’s seed. |
| But the gods long ago decreed |
| No waiting-maid should ever spread |
| Baile and Aillinn’s marriage-bed, |
| For they should clip and clip again |
| Where wild bees hive on the Great Plain. |
| Therefore it is but little news |
| That put this hurry in my shoes.’ |
| Then seeing that he scarce had spoke |
| Before her love-worn heart had broke, |
| He ran and laughed until he came |
| To that high hill the herdsmen name |
| The Hill Seat of Leighin, because |
| Some god or king had made the laws |
| That held the land together there, |
| In old times among the clouds of the air. |
| That old man climbed; the day grew dim; |
| Two swans came flying up to him, |
| Linked by a gold chain each to each, |
| And with low murmuring laughing speech |
| Alighted on the windy grass. |
| They knew him: his changed body was |
| Tall, proud and ruddy, and light wings |
| Were hovering over the harp-strings |
| That Edain, Midhir’s wife, had wove |
| In the hid place, being crazed by love. |
| What shall I call them? fish that swim, |
| Scale rubbing scale |