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THE CHILDREN OF LIR
There was once a chieftain in Ireland named Lir who had four children,
Fionnuala, and her 3 brothers, Aodh, Fiachra and Conn. They were very happy
until their mother died and their father married again. He married a woman named
Eva who was jealous of the children because their father loved them so much. When you hear the sound of the Christian Bell in Ireland you will become people again.” Eva left the four swans alone on the lake. Their father came looking for them and Fionnuala told him what Eva had done. He punished her by turning her into a demon of the air and it is said that she still lives in the clouds. The children spent 300 years on Lough Derravaragh. The lake was sheltered and pleasant. They told stories and sang songs until at last Fionnuala said “it is now time to go to the Sea of Moyle.” The Sea of Moyle was cold and miserable and stormy. One night was worse than all the others. Lightening flashed across the skies and thunder roared. When morning came Fionnuala could not find her brothers. It was a long time before they came back one by one, very frightened. When their time on the Sea of Moyle was over they flew to the Western Sea. On the way they passed their home and found it lonely and deserted. They wept in sadness. They spent three hundred years on the Western Sea.
One morning they woke to the sound of a mass-bell. St Patrick had brought the
Christian faith to Ireland and a holy man was calling the people to mass. The
Children of Lir went to him and he blessed them. Suddenly they were swans no
longer. They had heard the Christian bell and had become people again. But they
were old and feeble. They asked the holy man for baptism and they died and were
buried together, side by side in one grave.
The Song of Fionnuala
Silent, oh Moyle, be the roar of thy water, Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose, While, murmuring mournfully, Lir’s lonely daughter Tells to the night-star her tale of woes. When shall the swan, her death-note singing, Sleep, with wings in darkness furled? When will heaven its sweet bell ringing Call my spirit from this stormy world! Sadly, Oh Moyle, to the winter-wave weeping, Fate bids me languish long ages away; Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping, Still doth the pure light its dawning delay. When will that day-star, mildly springing, Warm our isle with peace and love? When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing, Call my spirit to the fields above. Thomas Moore
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