The author of this here is Fergus the Bard. [108]
High-minded Gaul,[109] Who combats Finn, A hero brave, Bold in assault, His bounty free, Fierce to destroy. Beloved of all, Gaul, gentle, brave, Son of great Morn; Hardy in war, His praise of old, A comely man, King, soldierly, free, Of no soft speech, No lack of sense, Cheerful as great: In battle’s day He moved a prince; Though soft his skin, Not soft his deed, Of portly mould, A fruitful branch, His heart so pure, He trains the young. ’Bove mountains high Rises in victory, We ever fear When he assails. I tell you Finn, Avoid the man, Terror of Gaul Should make you quail; Soothe him rather, Better than fight. Skilful and just, He rules his men, His bounty wide, A bloody man, First in the schools, Of gentle blood, And noble race, Liberal, kind, Untired in fight, No prince so wise, Brown are his locks, Marble his skin, Perfect his form, All full of grace, Fierce to exact, When aught is due, In vigour great, Of fairest face, No king like Gaul. I tell thee Finn, His strength as waves In battle’s crash, Princely his gait, Comely his form, Gaul’s skill’d fence No play when roused. Ready to give, Dreadful his strength, Manly his mould, Soldierly, great, Ne’er could I tell His grace and power; A fearful foe, Ready his hands, Conceal’d his wrath, A cheerful face. Like murmuring seas, Rushed to the fight, A lion bold, As great in deed, Powerful his arm, Choice amidst kings. Joyful his way, His teeth so white. ’Tis he that wounds, The greatest foe. His purpose firm, A victor sure, Desires the fight, In history learn’d, Warrior bold, Sharp is his sword, Contemptuous Gaul, Plunders at will. A fearless man, Wrathful he is, Dreadful in look, Leopard in fight, Fierce as a hound, Of women loved. A circle true E’er by him stood. He hurls his dart, No gentle cast. Soft are his cheeks, In blossom rich, Of beauteous form, Unchanged success; No stream so swift As his assault, Mac Morn more brave, Than any told, Of powerful speech, It far resounds, He’s truly great, Liberal, just, Does not despise, Yet firm resolves, Gentle, yet brisk, Forsakes no friend, In fight of kings, No powerless arm. There, fierce his mien, And strong his blow. When roused his wrath, He’s third of the chase. Noble Mac Cumhail, Soothe and promise, Give peace to Gaul, Check wrath and guile.
During my day, Whate’er it be, I’d give without guile, A third of the chase.[110]
Let’s hear no more, Soft dost thou speak, Finn’s love to Gaul, And third of the hounds.
Gaul, leave thy wrath, With us have peace, Now without grudge, Thou’st of Finn’s forest third.
That will I take, Fergus, dear friend, My wrath is gone, No more I ask.
Friend without guile, Lips thin and red, Bounty and strength, Shall win thee praise. High-minded Gaul.
The author of this is Fergus the Bard. [111]
Tell us now, Fergus, Bard of Erin’s Feinn, How did fare the day In Gawra’s furious fight.
Not good, son of Cumhail, The tidings from Gawra’s fight. Dear Oscar lives no more, He who bravely fought; Caoilte’s seven sons are gone, With the commons of Alvin’s Feinn. The youth of the Feinn have fallen, All in their warlike robes. Mac Luy too is dead, With six of thy father’s sons. Fallen are the youth of Alvin, Dead are the Feinn of Britain.[112] Lochlin’s king’s son is dead, Who came to give us aid, He of the manly heart, And arm at all times strong. Tell them now, O Bard, My son’s son, my delight, How it was that Oscar Hewed the helmets through. It would be hard to tell, ’Twould be a heavy task, To number all that fell, Slain by the arms of Oscar. No swifter is a cataract, Or hawk in sweeping stoop, Or rapids rushing fast, Than in that fight was Oscar. You saw him, last of all, Like leaves in windy weather, Or like a noble aspen, When hewers strike its stem. When Erin’s King he saw, Still living ’midst the fight, Oscar swift approached him, As waves break on the strand. When Cairbar this observed, He shook his hungry spear, And through him drove its point. Chiefest of all our griefs! Yet Oscar did not quail, But made for Erin’s King; With force he aimed a blow, And smote him with his sword. Then Art mac Cairbar fell, Struck with the second blow. So ’twas that Oscar perished, With glory, as a King. Fergus the bard am I, I’ve travelled every land, I grieve after the Feinn, To have my tale to tell. Tell.