a song telling very abridged version of The little brawl at Allen (Almu) between the men of the Fianna under Fionn Mac Cumhaill (Finn McCool) and Goll of Clan Mac Morna. like most Irish tales there are many different versions of this story, this is just the version I’m familiar with. part of my series of retelling of The Fenian Cycle. #folkmusic #ireland #medieval #music #history #folklore #celtics #druid #irish #giant #Vivionn #FinnMcCool #FionnMacCumhaill #oscar #irishtradition #irishculture #irishmusic #fightsong #almu #kildare
Now, Fionn mac Cumhaill called his Fianna fair,
With their wives to his hall on Almu there. A feast he gave for a comrade true—
To honor brave Goll for deeds he knew. Came Diarmuid young, strong and wise,
Oisín fionn’s son with his poet’s eyes, bold Oscar, fierce, and Keelta fleet—
and Goll near fionn took an honored seat. Now Goll once struck down fionn’s father in war,
And spilled the blood that proud Fionn now bore. Yet time turned foes to friends at last—
Though shadows linger from the past. he was second only to Fionn’s own name,
He stands in honor, strength, and fame. They fight as one, yet oft contend—
As rival chiefs, and bonded friends. The hall rang out with laugh and cheer,
The poets sang so all might hear; And Goll leaned over with smiling face—
“No thing is lacking in this fine place.” “Save a well-shaped poem,” Fionn replied,
And the poet Fergus True-Lips tried. Fergus then began his lay,
Of Fionn’s forebears and the deeds of their days; Fionn and his kin gave gifts of worth,
Rich as the kings of all the earth; Then turned the poet to Goll’s proud line,
And sang their raids in a voice divine; Gold from Lochlann Goll then paid,
Twice the treasure that Fionn had laid. To harpers, prophets, jugglers bright,
Goll gave freely all that night; So much he gave that fionn grew grim,
And silence slowly fell on him. For in fionn’s grand hall, before his kin,
Goll’s open hand outshone his within. Said Fionn to goll, “how long has it been,
You’ve taken gold from the Lochlann men?” “A long time now,” Morna replied,
But he met a gaze both stern and wide. “I thought their rent was mine alone,”
Said Fionn in a deep and measured tone. “Your memory’s wrong,” Goll answered plain,
“well Let it be known—how came this gain?” “In days when your father made war on me,
And called the High King’s wrath to be; He drove me out from Ireland’s shore,
And into Britain I crossed once more. He chased me thence to Norway’s land,
And banished me with his own hand; To Saxon soil I fled away—
But still your father barred my stay. At Cnucha’s field at last we met,
Eye to eye our fate was set; Your father stood with Lochlann’s band,
But still I struck him where he made his stand. I broke their host and drove them away,
And took their tribute on that fine day” “It’s bold,” said Fionn, “to boast so tall,
That you struck down my father in this my hall!” Goll met his eyes with a drunken grin,
And stared at proud, unflinching Finn. “If Fionn should treat me as did his sire,
I’d give him the same my sword gave prior.” Fionn’s gaze grew sharp, his voice sank low—
“I’ve a hundred men for each of your own.” Goll laughed aloud, “So had your sire—
Yet still he fell to Morna’s ire.” Then with ale the clans began to shout and jeer,
Old grudges rising, loud sharp and clear— Till Cairell, Fionn’s own kin bold,
And Conan the Bald let their fists take hold. Oscar’s sons came roaring in,
Then Goll’s lads joined with eager grin— Oscar himself took up the call,
And soon the hall was a thund’ring brawl. Men went flying o’er laden boards,
Wrestling, shoving, trading words— One paused mid-fight to pull a tooth,
Another swore he’d knock out two. The ladies laughed along the wall,
“Stop, you fools!” they cried through it all— But none would hear that gentle plea,
For this was a fight of the Fianna free. Goll sat calm in the roaring din,
While Fionn sat staring back at him. “Your men use steel,” said Goll with frown.
“Do they?” said Fionn, glancing down. “In the matter of weapons—” Goll began,
Then seized his sword and away he ran— Out to the yard in the night’s cold breath,
And Fionn came too with the Fenian shout’s death. They spilled outside in a roaring crowd,
Still shouting challenges loud and proud— One man tripped and rolled away,
Another swore he’d make him pay. A boot went flying through the air,
A helmet landed in someone’s hair— Two men wrestled in the hay,
While a third just danced to keep out the fray. Oscar’s son tried fighting three,
But one just tackled him at the knee— Another poured ale down another one’s back,
Who swore revenge with a bread loaf’s whack. A harp was rescued from the floor,
Though its player slipped right out the door— And in the chaos, no one knew,
Who’d started what, or who hit who.