It is indeed a shameful story to relate, how the pagan king of Leinster, Eochaidh Aincheann, visited the monarch Tuathal the Legitimate at Tara, A.D. 106, and married his daughter Dairine, whom he brought to Leinster, and lived with her for some time. Afterwards, he became enamoured of her sister, who remained at Tara; when, full of perfidy, on returning there he immured poor Dairine in a dungeon, and then spread the report that she was dead.
Some time elapsed, when he asked her sister in marriage, and the father having given his consent, the princess was brought to Leinster. However, Dairine contrived to escape from her prison, and then she appeared in the presence both of her husband and of her sister, to reproach the former with his baseness and atrocity. Having thus seen Dairine, and owing to the shock, her later-espoused sister fell dead on the spot, for she thought Dairine to have been dead.
Such event, however, was not long deferred. The injured Dairine pined away, and died of a broken heart. The true state of things soon reached Tuathal, who vowed by all his gods, that he would take signal vengeance on the king of Leinster. For the vices of the dynast, as usual in such cases, his people were destined to suffer; for their whole province was ravaged and burned, when the monarch marched with a large army into Leinster.
Nor did he desist until he had utterly subdued their king, who was slain; and afterwards, Tuathal imposed on the people, for ever, that oppressive tax known as the Borumha-Laighean, or “Leinster Tribute,” which had to be paid triennially. This led to repeated periodical and sanguinary conflicts between the Leinster kings and people, who sought its remission, and the monarchs of Ireland, who insisted on its enforcement.
These quarrels continued from the time of Tuathal to that of Finnachta Fleadhach (or the Festive), who reigned over Ireland in the latter half of the seventh century, and who lived contemporaneously with St. Moling of Teach-Moling.
The latter was a holy man, and he had great influence, not alone among the Leinster people, but also with the Irish monarch. The former assembled at a convention with their king Bran, and requested Moling, with some other deputies, to set out for Tara, there to represent the oppressiveness and injury of that tribute to the monarch. This mission they undertook to accomplish; but the sequel shows, that the negotiation was hardly creditable to any of the chief parties concerned.
St. Moling was a famous Irish poet, and, knowing that a prelude of panegyric must be acceptable to the festive Finnachta, he composed his celebrated Song of Praise, beginning with the line “Finnachta a hUib Neill.” However, there was another celebrated—but a very envious—poet named Tollcend in his train, and the latter wished to outshine the bishop in the royal court at Tara.
The whole company then set out, and came to the house of Cobthach mac Colman, where a feast was made for them. Meanwhile, the poet’s attendants remonstrated with him for holding a subordinate position in the train of the clerics.
“Why then,” said the poet, “let us leave the clerics, and go on to the house of the king.”
When they arrived, the “man of song” recited the Hymn of Praise before the king, and said he had composed it himself.
When Moling reached the king’s fortress on the following day, the king’s son had just met his death by an accidental shot in hunting. Finnachta thereupon inquired the cause for the great lamentation that was being made. The saint had to communicate to him the sad news.
Filled with anguish, yet with great faith, Finnachta cried out:
“Awake the youth, O cleric! and thou shalt have thy reward.”
“I ask,” said Moling, “for my song, and for the awakening of thy son, and for heaven to be obtained by thyself, no other boon than the remission of the Borumha until Luan,” which has for meaning Monday.
“It shall be thine,” said the king.
So Moling bound him by the Trinity and by the Four Gospels, and then he sang the Song of Praise.
As the king had heard it before, he charged Moling with falsely claiming to be the author of a poem, that had been made for him by the poet Tollcend. The saint calmly replied:
“If it was he that made it, let him arise and recite his poem.”
So the poet rose up before him, and, being confused, this is what he said:
“Dribor drábor cerca is cábail,” etc.
After delivering himself of this unmeaning rubbish, the unfortunate poet ran away like a madman, and drowned himself.
When Finnachta saw such a proof of the saint’s truth and power, the monarch fell at his feet, besought Moling to awake his son, and promised that he should get whatever he had come to demand. Thereupon St. Moling arose, and placed himself at the head of the youth; he then prayed the Lord fervently, so that for sake of Moling the Almighty restored to life the king’s son.
Now in the engagement given, the Irish monarch merely promised to stay the levying of the Leinster tribute for one natural day and night, which St. Moling, by a kind of logic not very intelligible, interpreted to mean for ever; for, by a singular use of the ambiguous Irish word Luan—which means Monday, as also the Day of Judgment—in his covenant with the monarch, Moling had desired to abolish this exorbitant tribute, not till Monday, as the monarch understood, but till the Day of Judgment, as the saint intended.
However, it would seem, that such equivocation originated in the fanciful brain of the author of the Borumean Laighaen, who displays his own and not St. Moling’s morality, in the many strange incidents and dull inventions, with which he embellishes the simple events of history.
Moling then journeyed southwards to Leinster, with his good news regarding the remission of the Borumha. Now, Moling had promised heaven to Finnachta before he left Tara. But Finnachta conceived, that Moling had deceived him in the term used, and he said to his people:
“Go in pursuit of that holy man, who has gone away from me, and say to him that I have given respite for the Borumha to him only for one day and one night; moreover, methinks the holy man has deceived me, since there is but one day and one night in the whole world.”
But when Moling knew that they were coming in pursuit of him, he ran actively and hastily until he reached his own house at Teach-Moling. The people of the king sent from Tara did not come up to him at all, and then had to return, after vainly trying to overtake him.
However, the Borumha was forgiven to Moling from that time until the Day of Judgment. Although Finnachta was sorry for losing his tribute, he was not able to levy it; since it was for the sake of obtaining heaven the king had granted its remission.
At this period, the celebrated St. Adamnan was in Ireland. Contrary to the will of this latter great personage, who wished that the Leinstermen should pay tribute to the race of Tuathal for ever, Moling’s sanctity prevailed against the desires of Tuathal and his aristocratic relative Adamnan, Abbot of Iona. It has been asserted, it was owing to the anger of Adamnan at this remission of the Borumha, that the men of Ireland went in pursuit of St. Moling.
He thereupon implored the protection of God and the saints in a celebrated poem, beginning, “A mo chomdiu cumactach,” etc., which he composed while running away at full speed.
Notwithstanding Finnachta’s promise, the Abbot of Iona, who was a resolute character and somewhat of a courtier, resolved on seeing the monarch, who did not care to be disturbed about that question. Accompanied by a cleric, Adamnan presented himself before the gates of the royal palace at Tara. He then sent the cleric in, to demand an audience from the monarch.
When the servant brought this message, the king was displeased—for he was a good-natured soul—and he cried out:
“I wish Adamnan was at Jericho, or even minding his own affairs at Iona; but, as a matter of courtesy and court etiquette, we cannot refuse admittance to his chaplain.”
Accordingly, the latter was ushered into the royal presence. Finnachta was then engaged playing chess.
“Come to converse with Adamnan,” said the cleric.
“I will not, until this game is finished,” said Finnachta.
The cleric returned to Adamnan, and told him the answer of Finnachta.
“Go thou to him and say to him,” said Adamnan, “that I shall sing fifty psalms during that time, and there is a psalm among that fifty, in which I shall pray the Lord that a son or grandson of his, or a man of his name, may never assume the sovereignty of Erin.”
The cleric accordingly went and told that threat to Finnachta; however, the king took no notice, but played at his chess till the game was finished.
“Come to converse with Adamnan, O Finnachta,” said the cleric.
“I will not go,” said Finnachta, “till this next game is finished.”
The cleric returned and told this to Adamnan.
“Say unto him,” replied Adamnan, “that I will sing fifty psalms during that time, and that there is a psalm among that fifty, in which I will ask and beseech the Lord to shorten his life.”
The cleric told this to Finnachta; still he took no notice of it, but played away at his chess till the game was again finished.
“Come to converse with Adamnan,” said the cleric.
“I will not,” said Finnachta, “till the third game is finished.”
The cleric once more repeated to Adamnan the answer of Finnachta.
“Go to him,” said Adamnan, greatly incensed, “and tell him that I will sing the third fifty psalms, and there is a psalm in that fifty, in which I will beseech the Lord that he may not obtain the kingdom of heaven.”
When Finnachta heard this, he suddenly put away the chess-board from him, and he came to Adamnan.
The latter said, “What has brought thee to me now, and why didst thou not come at the other messages?”
“What induced me to come,” said Finnachta, “were those threats which thou didst hold forth to me, viz., that no son or grandson of mine should ever reign, and that no man of my name should ever assume the sovereignty of Erin, and that I should have shortness of life. Still, I deemed these threats to be light; but, when thou didst engage to take heaven from me, I then came suddenly, because I could not endure such a privation.”
“Is it true,” said Adamnan, “that the Borumha was remitted by thee for a day and a night to Moling?”
“It is true,” returned Finnachta.
“Thou hast been deceived,” said Adamnan, “for this is the same as to remit it for ever.”
Then he went on scolding the monarch, and bitterly he sung in Irish this lay, as translated into English:
“To-day though they bind the locks of the white-haired,
toothless king,
The cows which he forgave to Moling, are due to a wiser head:
If I were Finnachta, and that I were Chief of Teamhair [Tara],
Never would I forgive the tribute. I would not do what he has done.
“Of every king who remits not his tribute, long shall the stories remain. Woe to him, who gave this respite! To the weak it is sorrow. Thy wisdom has ended and given way to folly.”
However, Adamnan concluded this poem by paying a tribute of praise to St. Moling’s virtues; and Finnachta made a very humble submission to the Abbot of Iona, by placing his head on the holy man’s bosom. This was an act of humility very acceptable to the renowned archimandrite. Wherefore, Adamnan was reconciled to the remission of the Borumha, and he departed from Tara, blessing its religious monarch.
