Classic Poem

The key of the lock of the Irish is missing; it has been lamented throughout Ireland; weak will they find the grip of the lock since its golden rivet is wanting. The key to seal it is missing: the peace of Ireland will be unsubdued; since the loss Ireland got no peace; her lock has gone abroad. The fostering of the daughter of Ó Domhnaill was the key to the peace of the Offspring of Conn; the taking of Gormlaith eastwards over the mountains closed the doors of war. Her father was Domhnall in the west—she set their hearts along a common path; her foster-father was Domhnall in the east—she was the yoke that bound them. Were her foster-father and noble father about to quarrel, the face of the infant would cause the dissipation of the high kings' enmity. Cattle and bright clothing were brought along with her, there were brought prosperity and wealth; mourning for her after the good fortune she caused, is a bronze tail on the gifts. If every family to which she is related is in affliction with sorrow for her, there are few future queens or kings without a huge tangle of grief. Their share of grief for her will fall to the progeny of Conchobhar; upon Brian's people there will be grief, and there will be upon the sons of Murchadh. The Race of Conall and the Race of Eoghan who saw her flourish, the Kindred of Brian and the Kindred of Conchobhar, every Irishman is a flower for Gormlaith; all are eager to lament her together. Injustice is the waste of love for the girl of the great Creator; it happens that he is not the man who prospers, he who one desires should live. Life for her—no completed matter—was prayed for every single night; the ordinance does not exist at all that a human may ask for life. For a very short while the child of the Sons of fair Conall was in the flesh; the duration of even the longest single draught—sensible the heart—is only a little while. When your lovely countenance perished, only five full years were completed; O young princess of the Muadh, early does the turf of the grave cover you. The perfume of the ripe apples was upon the white-breasted, dark-browed child; one could smell the aroma of the heavenly palace upon the diseased body of Gormlaith. Her foster-mother spends a while weeping, a while telling stories of her; what recollection would be more sorrowful to her foster-mother than the remembrance of her gaiety? Her being parted from her freckled face she avenges upon her palms; Gormlaith's separation from her foster-mother numbs the surface of her palm. Her foster-mother pays no heed to music, she does not complain at the chattering of a child; she is not wont to be terrified out of doors when she hears the rustling of trees. There was drowned in Ireland the only child comparable with her; it was a cutting down of a fresh growth—she was a sapling like that—the son of Niall Glúndubh by Gormlaith. She never struck another girl, she never earned the sighs for a daughter; I see everyone's despair because of her, the result of the high king's having nurtured her. She has not brought forth a mere sigh from the heart of the daughter of Cathal; there is nothing that does not leave a person except physical grief. The daughter of the daughter of Cathal is missing to her noble father; soft, lovely, bright, wavy, fresh hair, the pet calf, the first care of Cruachain. The apple of the apple-tree of Cruachain of Conn is under the dark-red earth of Doire of Colum, a fair guest in the soil of Doire, a berry of the branch of Brian Bóroimhe. Though we do not expect to see her grow, she was a dark seed in the dark-red earth; a humbler seed sprouts in the graveyard but the seed of kings sprouts not. The grand-daughter of Cathal of Cruachain, grandchild of Mór of Miodhluachair, the grandchild of Mór Mumhan lives not; less intense grief would be inadequate. Grand-daughter of Cathal of the red hand, the daughter of Domhnall O Domhnaill—I mourn for her who is no more, since she had just acquired her first praise.