Rury and Darvorgilla

KNOW ye the tale of the Prince of Oriel,
Of Rury, last of his line of kings?
I pen it here as a sad memorial
Of how much woe reckless folly brings.

Of a time that Kury rode woodwards, clothed
In silk and gold on a hunting chase,
He thought like thunder on his betrothed,
And with clinched hand he smote his face.

"Foreer! 2 Molhron! 3 Princess Darvorgilla!
Forgive she will not a slight like this;
But could she, dared she, I should be still a
Base wretch to wed her for heaven's best bliss!

“Forcer! Forcer! Princess Darvorgilla!
She has four hundred young bowmen bold;
I3ut I — I love her, and would not spill a
Drop of their blood for ten torques of gold.

"Still, woe to all who provoke to slaughter!
I count as nought, weighed with fame like mine,
The birth and beauty of Cairtre's daughter;
So, judge the sword between line and line!

"Thon, therefore, Calbhach, go call a muster,
And wind the bugle by fort and dun!
"When stain shall tarnish our house's lustre,
Then sets in darkness the noon-day sun!"

But Calbhach answered, " Light need to do so!
Behold the noblest of heroes here!
What foe confronts us, I reck not whoso,
Shall fly before us like hunted deer!"

Spake Bury then — "Calbhach, as thou wiliest!
But see, old man, there be brief delay —
For this chill parle is of all things chillest,
And my fleet courser must now away!

"Yet, though thou march with thy legions townwards,
Well armed for ambush or treacherous fray,
Still show they point their bare weapons downwards,
As those of warriors averse to slay!"

Now, when the clansmen were armed and mounted,
The aged Calbhach gave way to fears;
For, foot and horseman, they barely counted
A hundred cross-bows and forty spears.

And thus exclaimed he, "My soul is shaken!
"We die the death, not of men, but slaves;
We sleep the sleep from which none awaken,
And scorn shall point at our tombless graves!"

Then out spake Fergal — u A charge so weighty
As this, O Rury, thou shouldst not throw
On a drivelling dotard of eight-and-eighty,
"Whose arm is nerveless for spear or bow!"

But Bury answered, " Away! To-morrow
Myself will stand in Traghvally town;
But, come what may come, this day I borrow
To hunt through Glafna the brown deer down!"

So, through the night, unto gray Traghvally,
The feeble Ceann led his hosts along;
But, faint and heart-sore, they could not rally,
So deeply Rury had wrought them wrong.

Now, when the Princess beheld advancing
Her lover's troops with their arms reversed,
In lieu of broadswords and chargers prancing,
She felt her heart's hopes were dead and hearsed.

And on her knees to her ireful father
She prayed, UO father, let this pass by;
War not against the brave Rury! Rather
Pierce this fond bosom and let me die!"

But Cairtre rose in volcanic fury,
And so he spake — " By the might of God,
I hold no terms with this craven Rury
Till he or I lie below the sod!

"Thou shameless child! Thou, alike unworthy
Of him, thy father, who speaks thee thus,
And her, my Mliearb, who in sorrow bore thee;
Wilt thou dishonour thyself and us?

"Behold! I march with my serried bowmen —
Four hundred thine and a thousand mine;
I march to crush these degraded foemen,
Who gorge the ravens ere day decline!"

Meet now both armies in mortal struggle,
The spears are shivered, the javelins fly;
But, what strange terror, what mental juggle,
Be those that speak out of Calbhach's eye?

It is — it must be, some spell Satanic,
That masters him and his gallant host.
Woe, woe the day! An inglorious panic
Overpowers the legions — and all is lost!

Woe, woe that day, and that hour of carnage!
Too well they witness to Fergal's truth!
Too well in bloodiest appeal they warn Age
Not lightly thus to match swords with Youth!

When Eury reached, in the red of morning,
The battle-ground, it was he who felt
The dreadful weight of this ghastly warning,
And what a blow had o'ernight been dealt!

So, glancing round him, and sadly groaning,
He pierced his breast with his noble blade;
Thus all too mournfully mis-atoning
For that black ruin his word had made.

But hear ye further! When Cairtre's daughter
Saw what a fate had o'erta'en her Brave,
Her eyes became as twin founts of water,
Her heart again as a darker grave.

Clasp now thy lover, unhappy maiden!
But, see! thy sire tears thine arms away 1
And in a dungeon, all anguish laden,
Shalt thou be cast ere the shut of day.

But what shall be in the sad years coming
Thy doom? I know not, but guess too well
That sunlight never shall trace thee roaming
A yond the gloom of thy sunken cell!

This is the tale of the Prince of Oriel
And Darvorgilla, both sprung of Kings!
I trace it here as a dark memorial
Of how much woe thoughtless folly brings.