Dirge for Sir Norman MacLeod of Bernera
My spirit inclineth not to sleep's sweet mood; mine eye is tearful, uncheered by mirth, in the court where I was wont to hearken a new and pleasant tale.
A great heaviness is this that hath come upon me and left my veins without vigour; thick and fast my tear-drops fall. I have lost the key of my treasure-house; in the company of music-makers I will not go.
Bestowed under boards are my strength and my might, MacLeod's excellent son of satin banners; who was unstinted of gold, who was a melodious theme of story among the wandering bards and minstrels of Ireland.
Who can point out a man living thy peer in sweetness of speech, in beauty of hue, in active prowess and in justice and right, in liberality without dearth or unheartiness?
My gladness is gone; dead is my MacLeod strong and valorous, spirited and sage; the report of those who knew him attests my tale without defect of knowledge: shapely and full fair was thy countenance.
On the third day of March my joy left me for ever; to behold thee dead was the arrow that wounded me thou princely noble countenance, thou the valorous warrior's excellent grace-dowered son.
Son of Roderick the puissant, haughty and wise, these thou deemed virtues: a wide inheritance, beauty of person, hardiness, mastery without injustice.
In thee would be found dignity and blitheness; in the hour of judgment thou wouldst solve the case not with sullenness or anger, but courtly, orderly, with reason.
Beneath boards in a coffin is laid the prop of wisdom, a man benevolent and revered, given to feasting and bestowal of gifts, in whom was found good fame without flaw; under a grave-stone the dust doth lie upon my treasure.
Upon a horse well-shod and high-headed, bearing thy bright taper blade in a scabbard close and firm behind thy curling locks yellow as harp-strings, thou wouldst brace the mood of men with the comeliness of thy mien.
Many a stranger, many a guest and man of song, would for a space be ready to part with wealth for thy guidance and acquaintance; such was thy repute in very truth.
Thou wert the tranquillity of friends at time of home-coming, when men drank deep without discord or quarrel, and thou didst love to have by thee tellers of a rare and pleasing tale.
Often did friends wend to thy glorious fortress that was blithe and welcoming, festive and stately, without turbulence or arrogance, where the needy was not denied his due.
Thou of the line of Olgar great in sea-prowess, Olgar of taper-pointed sails, of blue-grey drinking-horns, of organ-strains, of heroes stern at need:
One half of thy kinship was with the race of Coll of heavy tributes and bright silver goblets, from the province of Connacht; numerous was thy white-sailed fleet.
Many a fosterling wails, and many a woman beats her hands, on thy burial day; it is no cause of gladness to thy friends to see thee sealed beneath a coffin-lid. My sorrow, death hath reft us.
The daughter of Sir James the munificent, a consort fresh and fair, did give to her darling her first love; she had much cause to be glad when she looked into her husband's face.
An ungentle storm is this that hath freshly arisen, that hath rent our sails and broken our rudder and our good compass, our stay and prop, the goodly fellow-ship that were ours in thy joyous tower.
Much we long for what we lack, for what is closed within the grave, our treasure and triumph, our care and our boast, our glee without gloom. What I myself have received thereof I shall remember long.
A great heaviness is this that hath come upon me and left my veins without vigour; thick and fast my tear-drops fall. I have lost the key of my treasure-house; in the company of music-makers I will not go.
Bestowed under boards are my strength and my might, MacLeod's excellent son of satin banners; who was unstinted of gold, who was a melodious theme of story among the wandering bards and minstrels of Ireland.
Who can point out a man living thy peer in sweetness of speech, in beauty of hue, in active prowess and in justice and right, in liberality without dearth or unheartiness?
My gladness is gone; dead is my MacLeod strong and valorous, spirited and sage; the report of those who knew him attests my tale without defect of knowledge: shapely and full fair was thy countenance.
On the third day of March my joy left me for ever; to behold thee dead was the arrow that wounded me thou princely noble countenance, thou the valorous warrior's excellent grace-dowered son.
Son of Roderick the puissant, haughty and wise, these thou deemed virtues: a wide inheritance, beauty of person, hardiness, mastery without injustice.
In thee would be found dignity and blitheness; in the hour of judgment thou wouldst solve the case not with sullenness or anger, but courtly, orderly, with reason.
Beneath boards in a coffin is laid the prop of wisdom, a man benevolent and revered, given to feasting and bestowal of gifts, in whom was found good fame without flaw; under a grave-stone the dust doth lie upon my treasure.
Upon a horse well-shod and high-headed, bearing thy bright taper blade in a scabbard close and firm behind thy curling locks yellow as harp-strings, thou wouldst brace the mood of men with the comeliness of thy mien.
Many a stranger, many a guest and man of song, would for a space be ready to part with wealth for thy guidance and acquaintance; such was thy repute in very truth.
Thou wert the tranquillity of friends at time of home-coming, when men drank deep without discord or quarrel, and thou didst love to have by thee tellers of a rare and pleasing tale.
Often did friends wend to thy glorious fortress that was blithe and welcoming, festive and stately, without turbulence or arrogance, where the needy was not denied his due.
Thou of the line of Olgar great in sea-prowess, Olgar of taper-pointed sails, of blue-grey drinking-horns, of organ-strains, of heroes stern at need:
One half of thy kinship was with the race of Coll of heavy tributes and bright silver goblets, from the province of Connacht; numerous was thy white-sailed fleet.
Many a fosterling wails, and many a woman beats her hands, on thy burial day; it is no cause of gladness to thy friends to see thee sealed beneath a coffin-lid. My sorrow, death hath reft us.
The daughter of Sir James the munificent, a consort fresh and fair, did give to her darling her first love; she had much cause to be glad when she looked into her husband's face.
An ungentle storm is this that hath freshly arisen, that hath rent our sails and broken our rudder and our good compass, our stay and prop, the goodly fellow-ship that were ours in thy joyous tower.
Much we long for what we lack, for what is closed within the grave, our treasure and triumph, our care and our boast, our glee without gloom. What I myself have received thereof I shall remember long.
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