Classic Poem

I accuse you, O ├üth Seanaigh; everyone has died in your unequal combat; one met guile and shame upon you; poor your profit to the Irish. I accuse you, O ford in the east, at which ere now my fortune was not slight; it is no reproach to you if the fact is whispered: poorly did you withstand the Foreigners. O ├ëirne, it is a cause for laughter, how Grainne frequented your mouth and all of your pure estuary with its blue eddies; you have now relinquished your pleasant tumult. O ├ëirne of Fathadh Canann, about whom every fine apple-tree ripened, what ship does not chance your harbour? Heavy your sleep, O ancient river. O wave of very white Eas Ruaidh, you who failed in the hour of tempestuous battle, no foreigner breathed upon you when you were Partholan's dwelling. Caol Uisge, that was a residence for ships, used to be no garden for the Foreigner in his blue-grey armour; the narrow water was no path for the Foreigner when it belonged to Maol Doraidh and Domhnall. Ath Seanaigh has led me astray, it has deprived me of my hope of payment; the route across the deep, grim ford will be a path for plunder until doomsday. Henceforth ├üth Seanaigh will be considered weak; it does not relieve my anxieties; a stream that does not resist the Foreigner, is, alas, a feeble river. O descendant of Conall of Clar Eanaigh, your one battle oppresses us; your remaining at ├üth Seanaigh has become a chronic illness for the Irish. Had the water-hound of the cataract survived, that fleet would have been utterly doomed; the part of the host on the other side of the encounter would have been a hard-pressed place of conflict. They should have stood their ground when the king of the land of Aileach was slain; the armies of that river should have remained with the hero until my darling met his death. Bitter I find it to be without Maol Seachlainn, the pale, curved, soft, slender-fingered scion; grievous is the exulting in triumph over him; it is one of the expeditions of prowess of Ireland. It was not a good time to fight face to face — only great sorrow will result from it ( lit. it will come only to great sorrow); I shall not conceal that our ford, our waterfall and our island will be forever in mourning. O island of the fresh foliage, you remembered us behind our backs; beloved the soul and the body, O island, that you fettered. Because you were not very eager to rise up, we shall be without the son of Domhnall; beloved was the body that enjoyed both your good and bad fortune, O Ireland. Hard I find it in the Half of pale Conn to be without the people with whom I would reside in comfort, to be without the brown-browed eye of Maol Seachlainn, handsome ├ô Domhnaill of the pointed sword. The head dear to me ( lit. my head) that I used to see being shaven, I now see a knife grievously flaying it; O Three Maries, comfort me with wheedling words — the king of Doire has been beheaded. Accursed is the man who beheaded the noble, slender one; until the head be as it was — an event I would see without hesitation — I shall have no king like him. It is time to separate and scatter since the land is putting forth waves; it is the breaking of the security of the Irish, O head, that the Foreigners should be exulting over you. What avail my body and soul after the death of those I would follow? Foolish would my zeal be for the band that beheaded slender Maol Seachlainn. What people would not find it a grievous cause for complaint that the head of the king went from hand to hand? What group that loved him would not protest that the head of the descendant of Lughaidh was treated like a ball? Slender Maol Seachlainn, pale Conn's descendant, who did not connive at a single act of treachery, was an outstanding hero; until his head left his body he was above the men of Ireland. Maol was like another Maol Seachlainn of Reachrainn of the princes; as though every king before him was a saint Maol works their miracles. He used to pass early across Loch Gile, he used to ravage its two banks with their huts; he would ravage Loch Eirne betimes; early used he plunder Loch Meilghe. I am with my anger forever in my breast, that is being aroused for ├ô Domhnaill — it is grimmer than any affliction — little do the Foreigners of Dealga care for my grief. It was a stroke of fortune for the grey Foreigner to capture the white palm that bestowed fine cloaks, that did not, O God, relinquish its valour and did not allow him to ask for quarter. There was seldom confusion of speech upon Maol Seachlainn of the splendid arms; alas, that there was a time to make a reproach in the Foreigners' language, though he did not think of it. Until he was severely wounded by a spear, no hosts could withstand him; a sea of blades were thrust into him and a single wounding struck him about his navel. Supine was the repose of the side and breast of my loved-one, whom neither seer, poet, priest nor godfather followed. The three noble, slender Collas round the skilled descendant of Aodh — a generous trio who were at every gap — were not a trio but three lords. Three noble heroes, who did not seek praise-poetry, are in one pale, tapering, limestone grave, a trio of warriors side by side; long will that Wednesday be remembered. The Ulaidh are lamenting three battles that make people miserable: the battle of Magh Rath, the battle of Craobh and the battle of Wednesday. No hosts of the Foreigners were in his bonds there when he was broken asunder; the Foreigners moved from him like a rushing fire — the northern rout was foretold. No poet nor seer ever foretold the rout in the north in kindly prophecy by rain; my heart is afflicted — I accuse you, O prophecy. My good fortune has parted from my breast; battle was joined against Lochlann (i.e. the Foreigners); poets are brought into neglect after the death of the chief of Cathbharr's kindred. I shall not go into my rightful place until I die, since the bright sapling does not live; you gave me a spouse, O God; I am alone against a multitude. The face that has parted from me and left me blind and wretched, was always dear to me; whoever is burdened because of him, does not alleviate my misfortune. Great the reason, O God of heaven, for my eyebrow to be washed by a stream of tears; greater is his rejection of his poet that his counsel be not heard. A pale neck beneath a distinguished cheek is what I see in the grave and start in horror; I look upon the bed that stands before me; there was a time when I would not shun it. For the love of him a man would make a poem that another would not refuse; unless God be sorry that it was made, who would not buy one of his praise-poems? I was not wont to go into the Foreigners' house nor to have anyone with authority over me; many injunctions that are not good ones for the kindred, have been instructed to the Race of Conall. Maol Seachlainn's death has weighed upon us in that there is no thickly-growing branch of hazel that is tawny with nuts; after his death summer is gloomier than after the slaying of Brian Boroimhe. Banbha's back has been broken; there is a reckless rush to carve her up; it is time, high time for the kings of the Sons of Conn to avenge ├ô Domhnaill. The son of Domhnall is not likely to help me; his great defeat has caused sorrow as far as the Maigh; it is not Maol Seachlainn that will succour me against the extent that his waterfall has prostrated and distracted me. Until Maol Seachlainn fell in the battle, I was able to avoid every hillside; there will now be many women with white palms about Inbhear Dulan.