Classic Poem

for the Lord of Applecross Since that thou art dead and livest
not, I am melted with grief for my kindly patient youth,
noble, merry, and young, that sat the stateliest around a
board; alas, to find thee without strength to rise.

Thou wert a warrior without feebleness or hurt, a smooth-fair-skinned gallant without vaunt, of the seed of great men a high-souled manly scion; it was native to thee to be true, and the speech of thy mouth was worthy to hear.
Thou wert child of the noblest dame, pure the stock wherefrom thou didst grow; kinship with kings was in thine every member; thou didst hold that charter under the seal of a man without guile; thou wert filled with the pride of prowess.
Thou heartsome towering Roderick out of majestic blessed Applecross, thou son of the loud-shouting hero of tough stern wounding swordblades, never a blemish was found upon thee, thou grandson of William of white-sailed galleys.
I found my fresh young darling to be without spot, without gloom; freckled, smooth, and ruddy was thy countenance, blue and winsome thine eye, shapely were knee and thigh; a trim youth comely and firm.
Thou scion of the apple-tree of virtues, woe to him who here by Finlay's Hollow once chanced upon thee on thy swift strong-hoofed horse! Thine enemy fled in rout before thee; for dread of smiting it was no time for him to tarry.
But thou whose warlike hand hath brought every foe to anguish, alas that thou hast remained not hale and strong against the hour of battle-tumult, to put thine enemies to flight; thou wouldst win the honour of that glorious day.
Thou wert an unfailing scholar, thy fingers skilled to write; thou wert noble, patient, steadfast; thou knewest the rule of the writing-house, thou wouldst not stifle the truth; to hear that thy wounds have dripped blood — this is news of mine own despoiling.
Yesterday my gladness came to a close; my dear knigh departed; I laid aside my harp, music was denied me; I and every physician were baffled, and so mine honour is departed and thou, my king, art dead.
The tree hath fallen headlong, the grain hath showered to earth; wounded and anguished for thy sake are the folk over whom thou stoodest pre-eminent, protecting them at all times; alas, death hath inflicted his bite upon thee.
What time they sat in thy chamber thy company arrayed themselves, not in readiness for the joy of thy wedding with the daughter of Clan Donald's earl seeking after thee, as were due; not so, but thou wert bestowed in the satin shroud beneath thy shirt.
O it is I that am sad and sorrowful, the tinge of weeping on my cheek! Sore is the bitter pang that I have suffered; comely rider of swift steeds, prime leader over a host, alas that thou hast forsaken me in the time of my need!
But I have found my young dear one without music as was not wont, wrights a-fashioning thy coffin, the women plucking grass, the men without music or chess-playing; grievous it is to hear the sorrow of my news.
When the folk gathered, there they suffered a bitter parting, as bees in a bank cry loudly when their honey hath been taken from them; as they surrounded the captain of the heroic host, mournful and wretched was their burden.