 | The banshee and other poems |  |
98
THE FIRST SORROW.
1
The staff of my age is broken!Three pines I reared in Dun-Turann,
Brian, Iuchar, Iucharba,
Three props of my house they were.
2
They slew a man to their wounding,In the fierceness of their youth!
For Cian, the son of Caintè,
Their comely heads lie low.
3
A dreadful deed was your doing,My sons! my sons!
No counsel ye took with me
When ye slew the son of Caintè.
99
4
A bad war with your handsYe made upon Innisfail,
A bad feud on your heads
Ye drew when ye slew no stranger.
5
And cruel was the blood-fine.That Lugh of the outstretched arm,
The avenging son of Cian,
Laid on you for his father.
6
Three apples he claimed, a sow-skin,A spear, two steeds and a war-car,
Seven swine, and a staghound's whelp,
A spit, three shouts on a mountain.
100
7
A little eric it seemedFor the blood of Dè-Danaan,
A paltry eric and foolish,
Yet there was death for the three!
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