 | The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves |  |
CUCHULLIN'S LAMENT OVER FERDIAH
Oh, mightiest of the host of Maev,
Ferdiah, sweetest mouth of song,
Heroic arm most swift and strong
To slaughter or to save.
Ferdiah, sweetest mouth of song,
Heroic arm most swift and strong
To slaughter or to save.
Oh, curls, oh, softly rustling wreath
Of yellow curls that round him rolled,
One beauteous belt of glistering gold—
Who laid you low in death?
Of yellow curls that round him rolled,
One beauteous belt of glistering gold—
Who laid you low in death?
Blue eyes that beamed with friendship bright
Upon me through the battle press,
Or o'er the mimic field of chess—
Who quenched your kingly light?
Upon me through the battle press,
Or o'er the mimic field of chess—
Who quenched your kingly light?
Alas, Ferdiah, overthrown
By this red hand at last you fell!
My bosom's brother, was it well?
Ochone, ochone, ochone!
By this red hand at last you fell!
My bosom's brother, was it well?
Ochone, ochone, ochone!
| The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves | |