 | The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves
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CREDHE'S LAMENT FOR CAIL
O'er thy chief, thy rushing chief, Loch da Conn,
Loud the haven is roaring;
All too late, her deadly hate for Crimtha's son
Yonder deep is deploring.
Small comfort, I trow, to Credhe is her wail,
Slender solace now, oh, my Cail!
Ochone! och, wirrasthrue! can she who slew
Bid thee back, Spirit soaring!
Hark, the thrush from out Drumqueen lifts his keen
Through the choir of the thrushes;
With his mate, his screaming mate, o'er the green
See! the red weasel rushes.
Crushed on the crag lies Glensilen's doe,
O'er her yon stag tells his woe,
Thus, Cail, och, ochonee! for thee, for thee
My soul's sorrow gushes.
O, the thrush, the mourning thrush, mating shall sing,
When the furze bloom is yellow;
O, the stag, the grieving stag, in the spring
With a fresh doe shall fellow!
But love for me 'neath the ever-moving mound
Of the scowling sea lieth drowned;
While och, och, ollagone! the sea fowl moan
And the sea beasts bellow.
| The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves
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