Shamrocks :: :: University of Virginia Library

It came on the last night of the old year.
As Diarmuid in Rath Grainne lay a-sleeping
He heard the distant baying of a hound,
And rose and took his armour and his spear,
Dazed in his mind, and all his pulses leaping,
And would have sallied forth to find that sound.

For the voice drew him with resistless might,
Tugged at his heart-strings, so his feet must follow,
Although the evil demons walked abroad,
And in the stormy wilderness of night
Leaped the blue lightning from her caverns hollow
Into the quivering lake;—the world was awed.

But Grainne woke, and seeing him paled and said,
“Love, go thou safely,” and broke down in weeping,
Knowing the wizards of the quicken-tree
Hated him, and long since had struck him dead,
Only great Angus held him in safe keeping;
And now she knew their arts and sorcery.

So she imprisoned him with tender arms;
And as he slept, again the hound's voice crying
Fainter and farther, and at last the dawn,
Windy and red, and rain-clouds fled in swarms;
And he arose, and kissed her calmly lying,
And went, for still with might his heart was drawn.

He took his armour, and his fierce small spear,
And led his favourite hound that followed after—
Down in the west there hung a tarrying star—
And reached at last a mountain, stark and drear,
And on its peak, lo! Fionn with mocking laughter,
And the fierce gibes one well had slain him for.

And Diarmuid held his peace nor answered back,
Though, seeing the snare, with rage his heart was burning;
But asked whose hunting dog it was that bayed.
And Fionn, “Ben Gulban's boar we chase and track,
And thirty Fenians he hath tusked since morning;
Wilt thou not slay him, or art thou afraid?”

Now, fearful was the wild boar of the hill—
No honest beast, but so transformed from human;
Whom Diarmuid's father slew long years ago.

And 'twas foretold that Diarmuid he should kill;
They were the two sons of the selfsame woman,
And the same hour should give them their death-blow.

But Diarmuid sware to Angus in his youth
Never to fight the boar in all his fighting,
And kept that oath; but now he must forget
And face the beast for glory or for ruth,
Or go henceforth with coward in fiery writing
Bit in his name that was so stainless yet.

And Fionn still mocking, “It is time to go.
See the boar comes, and all the Fenians flying;
Let us leave him the mountain-top, my knight.”
And Diarmuid, “Nay, since thou hast trapped me so,
I bide the end for living or for dying;
But give me Bran to help me in the fight.”

And the King would not, for he said the hound
Had fought the boar too often, unavailing
His skill and strength to match that savage wrath.
Saying, he went his ways, and all around
Was nought to see except the curlew sailing,
And lonely, lonely was the mountain path.

Then came the boar, his foes dispersed and slain,
Snorting and rushing blindly here and thither.
And Diarmuid loosed his hound that was so brave;
But the dog shrieked as one in mortal pain,
And fled in terror so he knew not whither,
And stumbling fell—the torrent was his grave.

Then Diarmuid cast his javelin, strong and true,
That struck the boar, but, from his forehead glancing,
Left him unscathed, and he raised his head
And saw who fought with him; and fury flew
From his small fiery eyes, and swift advancing
He would have rent him with his tusks stained red.

But the knight sprang on him and clasped him round;
And up and down the mountain, the boar dashing
Sought to relieve him of that hated girth;
And cast him in the end on rocky ground,
And tore him, trampling with his feet, and gashing
The fairest body ever born on earth.

And would have fled, but Diarmuid cast his spear
Cleaving the forehead, so were slain together
Sons of one mother, as the warning told.

Then Diarmuid turned to dying without fear,
And saw his life-blood staining the sweet heather,
And agonized, his lower limbs grown cold.

Thither came Fionn then with his chivalry,
And felt no ruth, but evil gladness showing,
Wagged with his head—“It likes me well thy plight:
Would that the women of Erin now might see
The beauty that set hearts afire and glowing
Turned into loathing. Thou art done, my knight.”

“Nevertheless, O Fionn,” said Diarmuid then,
“Thyself couldst heal me if it were thy pleasure.”
“Heal thee!” said Fionn; “as soon might heal the dead.”
“Canst thou not bring new life to dying men,”
Said Diarmuid, “if they drink thy two palms' measure
Of crystal water from the full well-head?”

“Hast thou deserved life-giving drink of me?”
Said Fionn. And Diarmuid, “Yea; dost thou remember
When thy foes sought to burn thee in thy house,

And the flames rose and would have roasted thee,
But I dashed through and quenched both fire and ember,
And slew my fifty whilst thou didst carouse?

“Thou wouldst have halved for me thy kingdom fair
If I had asked that night. And think, moreover,
When by his magic Colgan's son made fast
Thy feet to earth, and the sword touched thy hair
And pricked thy neck, but I thy knight and lover
Coming o'erthrew thy foes ere night was past:

“And brought their heads to thee, and their gold cup,
And touched thy feet with King's blood, so defeating
The magic's power, and set thy body free.
If I had asked that night when we did sup
Pearls in my drink and rubies for my eating,
Thy crown had gone ungemmed to pleasure me.”

And then he wandered, being near to die,
And his dry lips foam-flaked began to mutter
Strange soothsaying of what the years would bring.

“Death and defeat; the Fenians fly, they fly
In the lost battle, and their white lips utter
Thy name with wrath and cursing, ruthless king.

“Oscar and Ossian—'tis for you my grief,
And Erin's widowed wives and childless mothers.
Ossian shall live to see it, and much more;
But Oscar shall be slain with many a chief;
And sons hate sires, and brothers war with brothers;
And thou, O Fionn, that day, shalt miss me sore!”

Then Oscar raised his sword and threatened Fionn:
“Bring him the draught, or I will slay thee surely.”
And the knights groaned, their faces dark with gloom.
There was a small well, crystal-clear and thin;
A mile o'erhead the lark was singing purely;
The trodden heather yielded rich perfume.

Fionn came with lagging feet and loathing will,
And his thin lips drawn down in rage and cunning;
Took the white water in his joined palms bare,

And turned, but thought on Grainne, and let spill;
And at the sight of that sweet draught downrunning,
With a loud roar his knights had slain him there.

But Diarmuid cried aloud in pangs of death,
And the King went again, and took the water
That bubbled now rose-red between his hands,
And came half-way, and stopped, and caught his breath,
And thought once more upon King Cormac's daughter;
Fell the clear draught again on arid sands.

Which Diarmuid seeing heaved a terrible sigh,
And Oscar sware, “Now, by my sword and dagger,
Spill it again and I shall strike thee dead.”
Then went the King and raised the water high—
'Twas cold and grey—and came, and seemed to stagger,
And Diarmuid longing lifted his dear head,

And thrust his lips out, but fell back again
Lifeless and stark—the great soul fled for ever.
Then Oscar raised his voice in bitterness,

And the whole company of Fenian men,
Crying three times, made all the mountains shiver,
And the bare sky to echo their distress.

But Fionn, “Peace, peace! the man is dead being dead;
A true knight and a brave one;” and went speedy
Lest Angus come with vengeance in his heart.
And Oscar knelt and raised the dusky head,
And kissed the bearded lips with lips unsteady,
And Ossian too, and neither would depart,

Till they had laid their yellow cloaks beneath
And over him, and left him in Bran's keeping.
All day the faithful hound lay by his side,
Nose set on paws, and mourned that woeful death;
And overhead the hungry vultures sweeping
Knew him, and fled, and flapped their wings, and cried.

But Grainne, hearing, gathered round her knees
His sons and hers, and the one little daughter,
And wept with them in grieving heavy and sore,

Recounting his brave deeds by lands and seas,
And all the full deliverance he had brought her,
And bade them nurse their vengeance evermore

Till the time came. And to his eldest son
She gave his sword, and girt it round his body;
And to the next, Ga Dearg, his faithful spear;
And to the third, his armour to put on;
And to the fourth, his shield all stained and bloody;
But only kissed his little daughter dear.

And Angus knew that hour, and hither sped
On the cold wind, and wrung his hands with wailing:
“O bright-faced one, O son, art thou laid low?
Last night I watched thee not, and thou art dead;
And all my lifelong guard was unavailing
To keep thee from thy treacherous, evil foe.”

And shrieked three times, so that the shriek did fill
The waste world of the clouds, and the wild heaven,
And the sea islands, and the greenwood seas;

And valley, and forest, and the highest hill
Reeled at that sound that rung from morn to even,
Blown on all airs and borne on every breeze.

“I cannot give thee life, son,” whispered he,
“But I will heal thy gaping wounds, and bear thee
To my bright house, and on a golden bed
Thou'lt lie, and every day I'll breathe on thee
Life for an hour; thou'lt speak, and I shall hear thee—
We two together till the world is dead.”

Through the dusk gloaming came a golden bier,
Borne by four eagles whose wide wings were golden,
And hovering lit the startled evening grey;
And took the good knight with crossed sword and spear,
And sailed away; and never of man beholden
Was Angus or my Diarmuid from that day.

Now Benbulbin, a mountain in Sligo.