Brown-haired Monk, most gentle friend,
Press not with thy foot the soil
Nial to cover, heavy toil,
Of thy labours make an end.
Mournful priest, thy prayers delay,
Close not yet the prince's tomb,
Make an opening, for I come;
Move, O Monk, thy foot away!
Not my will that brought thee bound,
Black-kneed Nial, with heart of gold!
When mine arms his form enfold,
Raise his stone, and smooth his mound.
Gormliath I, a Queen commands,
Daughter of King Flann the brave;
Press not then upon his grave;
Move, O Monk, thy foot away!
[THE MOTHER'S LAMENT AT THE
SLAUGHTER OF THE INNOCENTS]
Then, as the executioner plucked her son from her breast, one of the women said:
"Why are you tearing
Away to his doom,
The child of my caring,
The fruit of my womb.
Till nine months were o'er
His burden I bore,
Then his pretty lips pressed
The glad milk from my breast,
And my whole heart he filled,
And my whole life he thrilled.
All my strength dies,
My tongue speechless lies,
Darkened are my eyes!
His breath was the breath of me;
His death is the death of me."