The author of this is Allan M’Rory. [101]
To-night my mourning is great, Thou tonsured priest whom I love, While I reflect on the fight, With red-tree[102] Cairbar we fought, Son to great Cormaig O’Cuinn, Woe to the Feinn whom he seized; A king who ne’er shunned the fight, And feared not the face of man. The Feinn to a man did serve, Finn and the good race of Conn, Till the day of Cairbar Roy; Nor evil nor weakness fear’d. Brave Cairbar his people addressed, Deceitful indeed was the speech. In battle would he choose to fall, The Feinn and he together, Ere even as a King he’d live With Erin beneath the Feinn. Barrin then spoke boldly out,
Remember Muckrey[103] and Art; How your great ancestors fell, Resisting the Feinn’s deceit; Remember their cruel bonds, Remember their pride and guile; And that we ne’er knew of war, But such as was stirr’d by Mac Cùil.
Then did the race of Conn resolve, In counsel with Cairbar Roy, That they’d at once assail us, And the whole of us destroy. They’d have days of joy and feasting, Great Alvin cleared of the Feinn. Then would all grief be dead, Nor could they a tax demand. Fiercely and bravely we fought, That fight the fight of Gaura; There did fall our noble Feinn, Sole to sole with Ireland’s kings. From India far in the east, To Fodla[104] here in the west, The kings did all own our sway, Till the battle of Gaura was fought. But since that horrid slaughter, No tribute nor tax we’ve raised. Nor to us was tribute due, Save by part of Erin’s soil. Many were there on the earth Of the folk who felt no grief. To both sides how great the loss, When we each other did destroy, Should strangers fierce come over, And seize on beauteous Erin.
Ossian, what would Finn have done Were burdens laid on Erin?
By thy hand, most holy Priest, There were none in all fair Banva,[105] Save a few aged heroes, And some younger untried men; What king might there plant his foot, Could Fodla have for taking. No fight, no conflict he’d need, No stratagem nor struggle.
Eastward we sent ambassadors, To Fatha of Con’s great son; That he might lead us on, To seize on Erin’s kingdom.
Great grief had now come on you, From Tara’s loud-spoken King: New reason had ye given Why all of you should perish.
Ossian, tell us now the tale, When ye fought that sturdy fight. Did thy son in battle die, Or had he speech when you him found?
I bent me over valiant Oscar, Soon as was the slaughter o’er; Caoilte too did bend him o’er His seven valiant sons; Each living man among the Feinn Bent him o’er his own dear friends. Some of them had still their speech, From others life had parted. Priest of the crosier white, Whoever saw that slaughter, ’Tis an everlasting grief, Erin’s nobles thus to die. Many were the hard round shields, Many precious coats of mail, And lifeless warriors on the field. Nor would our people grieve for this Were they not a vanquished race. Little from that field was left us, Save a king’s or chieftain’s spoil. There found I my own dear son Laid, on his left arm resting, His shattered shield beside him, While his hand still grasped his sword; His precious blood on every side, Flowed swiftly through his harness. My spear I rested on the earth, And o’er him stood as he lay; Then thought I, O tonsured Priest, What, now lonely, I could do. Oscar towards me now turns, ’Twas for me a grievous scene; Forth to me he stretched his hand, Wishing I should him approach. Then my dear son’s hand I seized, And cried out with a bitter cry. Forward from that time till now, In this world I’ve useless been. Thus to me my own son said, As life was fast departing,