A Celtic Psaltery Part 11

Lamentations

THE SONG OF CREDE, DAUGHTER OF GUARE

In the Battle of Aidne, Crede, the daughter of King Guare of Aidne, beheld Dinertach of the HyFidgenti, who had come to the help of Guare with seventeen wounds upon his breast. Then she fell in love with him.

He died and was buried in the cemetery of Colman's Church.

"These are the arrows that murder sleep,"

At every hour in the night's black deep; Pangs of Love through the long day ache All for the dead Dinertach's sake.

Great love of a hero from Roiny's plain Has pierced me through with immortal pain, Blasted my beauty and left me to blanch, A riven bloom on a restless branch!

Never was song like Dinertach's speech, But holy strains that to Heaven's gate reach.

A front of flame without boast or pride, Yet a firm, fond mate for a fair maid's side.

A growing girl--I was timid of tongue, And never trysted with gallants young, But, since I won on into pa.s.sionate age, Fierce love-longings my heart engage.

I have every bounty that life could hold, With Guare, arch-monarch of Aidne cold, But fallen away from my haughty folk, In Irluachair's field my heart lies broke.

There is chanting in glorious Aidne's meadow Under St. Colman's Church's shadow; A hero flame sinks into the tomb-- Dinertach, alas, my love and my doom!

Chaste Christ! that unto my life's last breath I trysted with Sorrow and mate with Death; At every hour of the night's black deep, These are the arrows that murder sleep!

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.

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.)

_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 burthen 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!"

_Then another woman said_:

"Tis my own son that from me you wring, _I_ deceived not the King.

But slay me, even me, And let my boy be.

A mother most hapless, My bosom is sapless.

Mine eyes one tearful river, My frame one fearful shiver, My husband sonless ever, And I a sonless wife To live a death in life.

O, my son! O, G.o.d of Truth!

O, my unrewarded youth!

O, my birthless sicknesses, Until doom without redress!

O, my bosom's silent nest!

O, the heart broke in my breast!"

_Then said another woman_:

"Murderers, obeying Herod's wicked willing, One ye would be slaying, Many are ye killing.

Infants would ye smother?

Ruffians ye have rather Wounded many a father, Slaughtered many a mother.

h.e.l.l's black jaws your horrid deed is glutting, Heaven's white gate against your black souls shutting.