Thanks to the powers above, That thou’st escaped, dear father.
Nothing do I tell but truth, A word I could not answer. Then approached the noble Caoilte, Who to visit Oscar came. Gently did Mac Ronain[106] say,
How find’st thou thyself, dear friend?
Just as thou would’st have me be, Going to a better world.
Cairbar Roy’s spear had pierced, ’Neath the navel, red-armed Oscar; The arm of Caoilte up to its bend, Followed in its course the spear. Caoilte did deeply search the wound, And well saw how all stood there. The wound was through to the back, Torn by the murderous spear. Mac Ronain gave a loud shriek, And, fainting, fell to the earth. Then spake Caoilte, the warrior brave, Recovering from his faint,
Dear Oscar, no more art thou ours; Thou and the Feinn must part, So part must the Feinn with war, Conn’s race the tribute shall raise.
We had been thus a brief space, Thou priest, the son of Alpin, When leaving the slaughter we saw, All of Fail’s Feinn now living, There were but two thousand men, The old and the young together, And none unwounded returned, Even of these hundred score. Nine wounds them grievously pierced, There were few of them with less. Then raised we the noble Oscar, Aloft on the shafts of our spears; To a fair green knoll we bore him, That we his dress might remove. Of his body one hand’s breadth Was not whole, down from his hair, Till you reached the sole of his foot, Save his face, and that alone. The entrails, the liver, the spleen, Each draining the body till day. The sons of the Feinn did then To a fair knoll them betake; His own son did no man mourn, Nor did he mourn his brother: As they saw how lay my son, All, all did mourn for Oscar. Thus was it with us a while, Watching the fair-skinned hero, When we saw approach at noon Finn Mac Cumhail, mac Treinvor. From the fierce slaughter escaped, A third of the Feinn still lived, When they laid the sons of Boisgne Upon their biers, the fight being o’er. With gashed limbs the men were halt, The chiefs a dreadful sight. We saw the standard of Finn Raised on the shaft of a spear, Which from the slaughter they bore; Gladly to meet it we went. All of us saluted Finn, But no salute was returned, As he climbed the warrior’s hill, Where deadly-armed Oscar lay. When by Oscar Finn was seen, As o’er him sadly he bent, He turned to him his face, His grandfather saluting. Then did my Oscar thus speak To him who was first of us all:
In death I have my desire, Noble Finn of pointed arms.
Sad it is, my brave Oscar, Thou good son of my own son; After thee I’m but feeble, And after Erin’s brave Feinn. The heavy curse of Art aenir Is on us to our great grief, From the east it me pursued, Following me along the field. Farewell to battle and fame, Farewell to the victor’s spoils, Farewell to the many joys, Which in this body I’ve had.
When Oscar had heard Finn’s wail, Convulsive pangs did him seize. Both of his hands he stretched forth, And his soft fair eyelid fell. From us then Finn turned away, And shed many bitter tears. But for Oscar and for Bran, Never did he shed a tear. There was none but Finn and I, Greater than him of the Feinn. Then did the men give three shrieks, Which rung through fair Erin all. Five score hundred, ten hundred and ten, There were who belonged to us, Of the Feinn dead on the field, The number was nothing less. No lie it is that double, With Erin’s king, great tale, Perished on the other side, Of Erin’s well-armed men. Finn cheerful or peaceful never Was from that down to his death; Since that fight it touched him sore That our kings should want their land. Ever since Gaura’s battle My speech has lost all its power. No night or day has e’er passed Without a sigh for each hour.[107] To-night.