THE DESERTED HOME
(An eleventh-century poem)
| Keenly cries the
blackbird now; From the bough his nest is gone. For his slaughtered mate and young Still his tongue talks on and on. Such, alas! not long ago Was the woe my heart befell; Therefore, wherefore thine so grieves It perceives, O bird, too well! Poor heart burnt with grief within By the sin of that rash band! Little could they guess thy care, Crying there, or understand. From afar at thy clear call Fluttered all thy new-fledged brood. Now thy nest of love lies hid Down amid the nettles rude. In one day the herd-boy crew Careless slew thy fledgelings fine. One the fate to thine and thee, One the fate to me and mine. As thy mate upon the mead Chirruped, feeding at thy side, Taken in their snaring strands, At the herd-boy's hands she died. O Thou Framer of our fates, Not an equal lot have all! Neighbour's wife and child are spared, Ours, as though uncared for, fall. [62] Fairy hosts with blasting death Breathed on mine a breath abhorred; Bloodless though their evil ire, It was direr than the sword. Woe our wife! and woe our young! Sorrow-wrung our hearts complain! Of each fair and faithful one Tidings none or trace remain! |
THE MOTHERS' LAMENT AT THE SLAUGHTER OF THE INNOCENTS
(Probably a poem of the eleventh century. It is written in Rosg metre, and was first published in The Gaelic Journal, May 1891.)