Three Irish Bardic Tales Being Metrical Versions of the Three Tales known as The Three Sorrows of Story-telling. By John Todhunter |
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THE LAMENTATION FOR THE THREE SONS OF TURANN
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 | Three Irish Bardic Tales |  |
147
THE LAMENTATION FOR THE THREE SONS OF TURANN
WHICH TURANN, THEIR FATHER, MADE OVER THEIR GRAVE.
THE LITTLE LAMENTATION.
1
Low lie your heads this day,My sons! my sons!
Make wide the grave, for I hasten
To lie down among my sons.
2
Bad is life to the fatherIn the house without a son,
Fallen is the House of Turann,
And with it I lie low.
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.
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2
They slew a man to their wounding,In the fierceness of their youth!
For Kian, 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.
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 Kian,
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.
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7
A little eric it seemedFor the blood of Dè-Danann,
A paltry eric and foolish,
Yet there was death for the three!
THE SECOND SORROW.
1
Crafty was Lugh, when he laidThat fine on the sons of Turann,
And pale we grew when we fathomed
The mind of the son of Kian.
2
Three apples of gold ye brought himFrom the far Hesperian garden;
Ye slew the King of Greece
For the skin that heals all wounds.
3
Ye took from the King of PersiaThe spear more deadly than dragons;
It keeps the world in danger
With the venom of its blade.
4
Ye won from the King of SicilHis horses and his war-car,
The fleetness of wings their fleetness,
Their highway the land and the sea.
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5
The King of the Golden PillarsYielded the swine to your challenge,
Each night they smoked at the banquet,
Each morning they lived again.
6
Ye took from the King of IcelandHis hound like the sun for splendour,
Ye won by your hands of valour
Those wonders, and brought them home.
7
But short was the eric of LughWhen your hearts grew hungry for Turann;
For Lugh had laid upon you
Forgetfulness by his craft.
THE GREAT LAMENTATION.
1
Death to the sons of TurannHad Lugh in his crafty mind:
‘Yet lacks of my lawful eric
The spit, three shouts on the mountain.’
2
The strength of a babe was left usAt the hearing of that word,
Brian, Iuchar, Iucharba,
Like dead men they fell down.
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3
But Brian your courage kindled,My sons! my sons!
For the Island of Finchory
A year long they searched the seas.
4
Then Brian set the clearnessOf crystal upon his forehead,
And, his water-dress around him,
Dived through the waves' green gloom.
5
Days twice-seven was he treadingThe silent gloom of the deep,
His lanterns the silver salmon
To the sea-sunk Isle of Finchory.
6
Soft shone the moony splendourOf the magic lamps of Finchory.
There sat in their hall of crystal
The red-haired ocean-wraiths.
7
Twice-fifty they sat and broideredWith pearls their sea-green mantles;
But Brian strode to their kitchen
And seized a spit from the rack.
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8
Soft rippled their silvery laughter,Like laughter of summer wavelets:
‘Strong is the son of Turann,
But stronger the weakest here.
9
‘And now, should we withstand thee,No more shouldst thou see thy brothers;
Yet keep the spit for thy daring,
Brian, we love the bold.’
10
Then glad ye sailed away,My sons! my sons!
To the Hill of Shouts in Lochlànn,
To the Mountain of Miochan.
11
There met them the friends of Kian,Sword-mates of the son of Cainte,
Guarding the mount, they stood,
Miochan and his three stout sons.
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Oh! bitter were your battlesIn Greece, in Spain, and in Persia,
But bitterer far that fight
On the Mountain of Miochan!
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13
A dead man ye left Miochan,Thrust through by the spear of Brian,
Dead men ye left his sons,
Corc, Conn, and Oodh, dead men.
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But bored were your three fair bodies,My sons! my sons!
Bored through by the spears of the sons
Of Miochan of the Mountain.
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The sun could shine through their wounds,The swallows fly through their bodies,
When Brian raised his brothers
To give three shouts on that Mountain.
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Ye raised your manly voices,My sons! my sons!
More blood came from you than breath
When ye gave your shouts on that Mountain.
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Bleeding, down to the shipLed Brian his bleeding brothers:
‘Our lives, with the Skin of Healing,
Fooled Lugh from our hands!’ they said.
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18
Then softly in the shipLaid Brian his fainting brothers;
By courage he kept his life
To bring them alive to land.
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‘I see the hills of Dun-Turann,And Tara of the Kings!’
Glad and sad were the three
When they saw Ben-Edar above them.
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A joyful man was your father,To greet you living, my sons
A sorrowful man was I
When I saw your deadly wounds.
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In Tara of the KingsI bent before Lugh, I humbled
Before him this hoary head:
‘Full eric we bring thee, Lugh!’
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‘A great eric, Lugh,My sons have paid for thy father,
Heal now with the Skin of Healing
The weakness of their wounds!’
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23
‘Bring then thy sons before me!’Said Lugh; and we came before him:
Two eyes were dry in all Tara
To see them, shrunk with their wounds!
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Said Lugh: ‘I take from your handsThe eric, ye Sons of Turann;
No bond is on me this day
To yield you the Skin of Healing.’
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Then burst o'er Tara's GreenA groan from the hosted kings,
As Brian raised his brothers
To look in the face of Lugh.
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Said Brian: ‘I slew thy father,But now I bring thee a blood-fine,
The greatest that man on man
E'er laid since the sun was born.
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‘I slew thy father: full ericI bring thee—yet let me die;
But heal with the Skin of Healing
My brothers, to be thy men.’
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‘Nay,’ said Iuchar and Iucharba,‘Our blood be cast in the eric,
The best the sun sees for valour
Is Brian—save him alone!’
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‘No mercy ye showed my father,’Said Lugh, ‘when his hands of pleading
Ye scorned. No hurt or no healing
I owe you: your fine is paid.’
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Hard-eyed, to the dun of TaraHe turned his feet from your succour.
Ye won him the world's High-Kingship,
He left you with your wounds!
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Then faint ye sank by your father,My sons! my sons!
Said Brian: ‘Unjust, O Lugh,
Is the justice of thy craft!
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‘No wrong like our wrong, O father!No sorrow like thy sorrow!
We blent no fraud with our valour,
Nor gave him guile for his guile.
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33
‘Great were the deeds we didIn Spain, in Greece, and in Persia;
But base and black is the deed
Of Lugh to us three in Tara.’
34
Ah! pale were your lips that kissed me,My sons! my sons!
Heart-sick, the three lay down
To die on the Green of Tara.
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Dim stared their eyes for the sky,Their faint hands groped for each other,
Last hope of the House of Turann,
My sons lay down in death.
THE DEATH-SONG OF TURANN.
1
Low lie your heads this day,My sons! my sons!
The strong in their pride go by me,
Saying: ‘Where are thy sons?’
2
They spit on my grief, they sullyThe snows of my age upon me,
Sonless I stand in Tara,
A laughter, a lonely shame.
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3
How shall I walk in strengthIn the gathering of the chiefs?
A shaking leaf is my valour,
Wanting your spears about me.
4
How shall I sit in honourIn the counsel of the kings?
My beard of wisdom the scorner
Shall pluck, with none to defend me.
5
Happy the dead lie down,Not knowing the loss of children:
My life in your grave lies dead,
And I go down to my children.
6
Without you, my hoary ageIs a faltering of the feet.
Without you, my knees that tremble
Go stumbling down to the grave.
7
Bad is life to the fatherIn the house without a son,
Fallen is the House of Turann,
And with it I lie low!
| Three Irish Bardic Tales | |