The Tryst After Death

Hush, woman, do not speak to me! My thoughts are not with thee.
My thoughts are still in the encounter at Feic.

My bloody corpse lies by the side of the Slope of two Brinks;
My head all unwashed is among warrior-bands in fierce slaughter.

It is blindness for any one making a tryst to set aside the tryst with
Death:
The tryst that we made at Claragh has been kept by me in pale death.

It was destined for me,--unhappy journey! at Feic my grave had been
marked out;
It was ordained for me--O sorrowful fight! to fall by warriors of
another land.

'Tis not I alone who in the fulness of desires has gone astray to meet
a woman--
No reproach to thee, though it was for thy sake--wretched is our last
meeting!
Had we known it would be thus, it had not been hard to desist.

The noble-faced, grey-horsed warrior-band has not betrayed me.
Alas! for the wonderful yew-forest, that they should have gone into
the abode of clay!

Had they been alive, they would have revenged their lords;
Had mighty death not intervened, this warrior-band had not been
unavenged by me.

To their very end they were brave; they ever strove for victory over
their foes;
They would still sing a stave--a deep-toned shout,--they sprang from
the race of a noble lord.

That was a joyous, lithe-limbed band to the very hour when they were
slain:
The green-leaved forest has received them--it was an all-fierce
slaughter.

Well-armed Domnall, he of the red draught, he was the Lugh of the
well-accoutred hosts:
By him in the ford--it was doom of death--Congal the Slender fell.

The three Eoghans, the three Flanns, they were renowned outlaws;
Four men fell by each of them, it was not a coward's portion.

Swiftly Cu-Domna reached us, making for his namesake:
On the hill of the encounter the body of Flann the Little will be
found.

With him where his bloody bed is thou wilt find eight men:
Though we thought them feeble, the leavings of the weapon of Mughirne's
son.

Not feebly fights Falvey the Red; the play of his spear-strings withers
the host;
Ferchorb of radiant body leapt upon the field and dealt seven murderous
blows.

Front to front twelve warriors stood against me in mutual fight:
Not one of them all remains that I did not leave in slaughter.

Then we two exchanged spears, I and Alill, Eoghan's son:
We both perished--O the fierceness of those stout thrusts!
We fell by each other though it was senseless: it was the encounter of
two heroes.

Do not await the terror of night on the battle-field among the slain
warriors:
One should not hold converse with ghosts! betake thee home, carry my
spoils with thee!

Every one will tell thee that mine was not the raiment of a churl:
A crimson cloak and a white tunic, a belt of silver, no paltry work!

My five-edged spear, a murderous lance, whose slaughters have been
many;
A shield with five circles and a boss of bronze, by which they used
to swear binding oaths.

The white cup of my cup-bearer, a shining gem, will glitter before
thee;
My golden finger-ring, my bracelets, treasures without a flaw, King Nia
Nar had brought them over the sea.

Cailte's brooch, a pin with luck, it was one of his marvellous
treasures:
Two heads of silver round a head of gold, a goodly piece, though small.

My draught-board--no mean treasure!--is thine; take it with thee.
Noble blood drips on its rim, it lies not far hence.

Many a body of the spear-armed host lies here and there around its
crimson woof;
A dense bush of the ruddy oak-wood conceals it by the side of the
grave.

As thou carefully searchest for it thou shouldst not speak much:
Earth never covered anything so marvellous.

One half of its pieces are yellow gold, the other are white bronze;
Its woof is of pearls; it is the wonder of smiths how it was wrought.

The bag for its pieces,--'tis a marvel of a story--its rim is
embroidered with gold;
The master-smith has left a lock upon it which no ignorant person can
open.

A four-cornered casket,--it is but tiny--made of coils of red gold;
One hundred ounces of white bronze have been put into it firmly.

For it is of a coil of firm red gold, Dinoll the goldsmith brought it
over the sea;
Even one of its clasps only has been priced at seven slave-women.

Memories describe it as one of Turvey's master-works:
In the time of Art--he was a luxurious king--'tis then Turvey, lord of
many herds, made it.

Smiths never made any work comparable with it;
Earth never hid a king's jewel so marvellous.

If thou be cunning as to its price, I know thy children will never be
in want;
If thou hoard it, a close treasure, none of thy offspring will ever be
destitute.

There are around us here and there many spoils of famous luck:
Horrible are the huge entrails which the Morrigan washes.

She came to us from the edge of a spear, 'tis she that egged us on.
Many are the spoils she washes, terrible the hateful laugh she laughs.

She has flung her mane over her back--it is a stout heart that will not
quail at her:
Though she is so near to us, do not let fear overcome thee!

In the morning I shall part from all that is human, I shall follow the
warrior-band;
Go to thy house, stay not here, the end of the night is at hand.

Some one will at all times remember this song of Fothad Canann;
My discourse with thee shall not be unrenowned, if thou remember my
bequest.

Since my grave will be frequented, let a conspicuous tomb be raised;
Thy trouble for thy love is no loss of labour.

My riddled body must now part from thee awhile, my soul to be tortured
by the black demon.
Save for the worship of Heaven's King, love of this world is folly.

I hear the dusky ousel that sends a joyous greeting to all the
faithful:
My speech, my shape are spectral--hush, woman, do not speak to me!