Classic Poem

As I wake early in the morning 'tis not sleep that assails me; my bed is wet without comfort or quiet.
Pitiful is my chapter to read, whoever should tarry to listen to it, continuing long in constant weeping to little purpose.
I have nothing in return, now that my support has forsaken me, but dullness of hearing and of sight and of vigour.
Heavy this yoke on our necks, filled we are with grief; we are weary and not quit are we (of grief).
We sore miss the heroes our loan of whom was but brief, for there was not a single grey-headed man in their place.
Men dignified and esteemed, men surpassing in compassion, men valiant for routing an enemy.
In the space of forty (years) distressing is our ruin; it is now present with us in double measure:
We have lost five or six of the mightiest heroes whom no living man in Britain surpassed:
In nobility and honour, in every virtue that man possessed, in hardihood to win victory in the field.
Sad is this constant rout of us, it has left our shoulder desolate, to be sweeping our youth away from us without respite.
Joy turned to sorrow for us, mirth turned to anguish, we lost the sight and delight of our mirror.
The death of our precious overlord, the bitterest tale to hear; those who hated us and wished us ill got their desire.
'Tis this chill of last year that has weighted our step; this is the rout that is driving us to misery:
To suffer from the ill effects of that tale every single day during our lifetime, with little mirth or comfort or good health.
We got news of our misfortune, we got news of our spoiling, we got news that laid low our high spirit.
Sore the sickness and distressing, great the burden to bear that has smothered our breath and our livers:
To be continually grieving, without a loved one near us, but under the reproach of the daughter of Ionnsa in the shieling.
Now since I am a poor orphan, a direct heir of Ossian, telling my hard fortune to Patrick;
Telling my hard fortune, how it began at first, there is no reason or advantage for me to relate it,
But the stroke that has brought ruin on us, that has left us ever lamenting it; this is the flood that has put a veil over everything that came (before),
That has weakened our hope, that has increased our anguish; we have lost the comfort of our comely Absalom.
Our handsome Absalom has gone, who was without blame or blemish; 'twas a sea that came suddenly that has overcome us;
That has put our bed among thorns, and our sleep is not to be found, our eyes streaming because of the news that has come.
Since there is no hope of Sir James's return little is our mind set on gay laughter, but as sad are we after him as King David.
We have lost the foliage of our branch, the topmost grain of our ear of corn; this is the journey that has brought loss upon our heroes.
We must needs wait for peace, since we are of no weight in strife, but must suffer till we submit to our foe.
If oppression or threat come we are without means to repel them, like Troy without Hector on the scene.
We are like Troy without Hector, pitiful those tidings to hear; we are wounded in our persons and our constitution;
Since the day on which came our ruin that lowered us in esteem, when our chief and our hope left us.
It has left us wretched and sad in the place of our wounding that thou hast not returned safely to thy lands.
It has made a gap among our nobility, never shall the tenantry recover from it; we are unhappy and wretched and of little avail.
We are like sheep without a shepherd, after having been deprived of their watcher, scattered by the ravage of the fox.
Our pleasure and delight, a tree to protect our right, has been laid to rest in the kingdom of Rome.
That thou art in the kingdom of Rome, sore are those tidings to tell; God! Clan Donald will rise no higher.
Since the day that our sapling was cut off, tree of most princely foliage, and its apple-tree not to be saved by us.
'Tis a great tale in Europe, great its harm in King George's sight, 'tis a great loss to thy kind for ever.
There was none cased in coat nor yet wore shoes in whom men could enumerate together thine endowments:
In wisdom and knowledge, in understanding and dignity, over and above the great gifts that were wedded to thee;
Or one who will travel through every kingdom who will win thy fame in truth between Louis of France and the Pope.
We are tearful and wretched and sad, without gay laugh or expectation of it, like the Fian when Fionn had left them.
We are without Oscar or Diarmaid, without frank, generous Goll, every topmost tree is faring from us to Paradise:
The leaders of the hardy heroes by whom Alba was subdued — many an author gave an account of how that fell out.
Wretchedly have our days ended, like Maol-Ciarain without Fearchar; we are lamenting those who have gone from us and not returned.
'Tis a likely matter to relate that we have filled the cup of iniquity, so sorely have we provoked the wrath of the Most High.
Thou precious One who took him from us to the more enduring kingdom, O Christ preserve for us the brothers.