Poems by Denis Florence MacCarthy Part 11

FERDIAH.

O Hound, so famed for deeds of valour doing, 'Twas not thy place my death to give to me; Thine is the fault of my most certain ruin, And yet 'tis best to have my blood on thee.

The wretch escapes not from his false position, Who to the gap of his destruction goes; Alas! my death-sick voice needs no physician, My end hath come--my life's stream seaward flows.

The natural ramparts of my breast are broken, In its own gore my struggling heart is drowned:-- Alas! I have not fought as I have spoken, For thou hast killed me in the fight, O Hound!

Cuchullin towards him ran, and his two arms Clasping about him, lifted him and bore The body in its armour and its clothes Across the Ford unto the northern bank, In order that the slain should thus be placed Upon the north bank of the Ford, and not Among the men of Erin, on the west.

Cuchullin laid Ferdiah down, and then A sudden trance, a faintness on him came When bending o'er the body of his friend.

Laegh saw the weakness, which was seen as well By all the men of Erin, who arose Upon the moment to attack him there.

"Good, O Cuchullin," Laegh exclaimed, "arise, For all the men of Erin hither come.

It is no single combat they will give, Since fair Ferdiah, Daman's son, the son Of Dare, by thy hands has here been slain."

"O servant, what availeth me to rise,"

Cuchullin said, "since he hath fallen by me?"

And so the servant said, and so replied Cuchullin, in his turn, unto the end;

LAEGH.

Arise, Emania's slaughter-hound, arise, Exultant pride should be thy mood this day:-- Ferdiah of the hosts before thee lies-- Hard was the fight and dreadful was the fray.

CUCHULLIN.

Ah, what availeth me a hero's pride?

Madness and grief are in my heart and brain, For the dear blood with which my hand is dyed-- For the dear body that I here have slain.

LAEGH.

It suits thee ill to shed these idle tears, Fitter by far for thee a fiercer mood-- At thee he flung the flying pointed spears, Malicious, wounding, dripping, dyed with blood.

CUCHULLIN.

Even though he left me crippled, maimed, and lame, Even though I lost this arm that now but bleeds, All would I bear, but now the fields of fame No more shall see Ferdiah mount his steeds.

LAEGH.

More pleasing is the victory thou hast gained, More pleasing to the women of Creeve Rue, He to have died and thou to have remained, To them the brave who fell here are too few.

From that black day in brilliant Mave's long reign Thou camest out of Cuailgne it has been-- Her people slaughtered and her champions slain-- A time of desolation to the queen.

When thy great plundered flock was borne away, Thou didst not lie with slumber-seal'ed eyes,-- Then 'twas thy boast to rise before the day:-- Arise again, Emania's Hound, arise!

So Laegh addressed the hero, though he seemed To hear him not, but mourned his friend the more.

And thus he spoke these words, and thus he moaned:

"Alas! Ferdiah, an unhappy chance It was for thee that thou didst not consult Some of the heroes who my prowess knew, Before thou camest forth to meet me here, In the hard battle combat by the Ford.

Unhappy was it that it was not Laegh, The son of Riangabra, thou didst ask About our fellow-pupils.h.i.+p--a bond That might the unnatural combat so have stayed; Unhappy was it that thou didst not ask Honest advice from Fergus, son of Roy; Or that it was not battle-winning, proud, Exulting, ruddy Connall thou didst ask About our fellow-pupils.h.i.+p of old.

For well do these men know there will not be A being born among the Conacians who Shall do the deeds of valour thou hast done From this day forth until the end of time.

For if thou hadst consulted these brave men About the places where the a.s.semblies meet, About the plightings and the broken vows Uttered too oft by Connaught's fair-haired dames; If thou hadst asked about the games and sports Played with the targe and s.h.i.+eld, the sword and spear, If of backgammon or the moves of chess, Or races with the chariots and the steeds, They never would have found a champion's arm As strong to pierce a hero's flesh as thine, O rose-cloud hued Ferdiah! None to raise The red-mouthed vulture's hoa.r.s.e, inviting croak Unto the many-coloured flocks, nor one Who will for Croghan combat like to thee, O red-cheeked son of Daman!" Thus he said, Then standing o'er Ferdiah he resumed: "Oh! great has been the treachery and fraud The men of Erin practised upon thee, Ferdiah, thus to bring thee here to fight With me, 'gainst whom it is no easy task Upon the Tain Bo Cuailgne to contend."

And thus he said, and thus again he spake:

CUCHULLIN.

O my Ferdiah, O my friend, forgive: 'Tis not my hand but treachery lays thee low:-- Thou doomed to die and I condemned to live, Both doomed for ever to be severed so!

When we were far away in our young prime, With Scatha, dread Buannan's chosen friend, A vow we made, that till the end of time, With hostile arms we never should contend.

Dear was thy lovely ruddiness to me, Dear was thy gray-blue eye, so bright and clear,-- Thy comely, perfect form how sweet to see!

Thy wisdom and thy eloquence how dear!

In body-cutting combat, on the field Of spears, when all is lost or all is won, None braver ever yet held up a s.h.i.+eld, Than thou, Ferdiah, Daman's ruddy son.

Never since Aife's only son I slew, Not knowing who the gallant youth might be,-- Ah! hapless deed, that still my heart doth rue!-- None have I found, Ferdiah, like to thee.

Thy dream it was to win fair Finavair, From Mave her beauteous daughter's hand to gain; As soon might'st thou in the wide fields of air The glancing sunbeam's swift-winged flight restrain.

He paused awhile, still gazing on the dead, Then to his charioteer he spoke: "Friend Laegh, Strip now Ferdiah, take his armour off, That I may see the golden brooch of Mave, For which he undertook the fatal fight."

Laegh took the armour then from off his breast, And then Cuchullin saw the golden pin That cost so dear, and then these words he spake:

CUCHULLIN.

Alas! O brooch of gold!

O chief, whose fame each poet knows, O hero of stout slaughtering blows, Thy arm was brave and bold.

Thy yellow flowing hair, Thy purple girdle's silken fold Still even in death around thee rolled,-- Thy twisted jewel rare.

Thy n.o.ble beaming eyes, Now closed in death, make mine grow dim, Thy dazzling s.h.i.+eld with golden rim, Thy chess a king might prize.

Oh! piteous to behold, My fellow-pupil falls by me: It was an end that should not be, Alas! O brooch of gold!

After another pause Cuchullin spoke:-- "O Laegh, my friend, open Ferdiah now, And from his body the Gaebulg take out, For I without my weapon cannot be."

Laegh then approached, and with a strong, sharp knife Opened Ferdiah's body, and drew out The dread Gaebulg. And when Cuchullin saw His b.l.o.o.d.y weapon lying red beside Ferdiah on the ground, again he thought Of all their past career, and thus he said:

CUCHULLIN.

Sad is my fate that I should see thee lying, Sad is the fate, Ferdiah, I deplore,-- I with my weapon which thy blood is dyeing, Thou on the ground a ma.s.s of streaming gore.

When we were young, where Scatha's eye hath seen us Fond fellow-pupils in her schools of Skye, Never was heard the angry word between us, Never was seen the angry spear to fly.

Scatha, with words of eloquent persuading, Roused us in many a glorious feat to join; "Go," she exclaimed, "each other bravely aiding, Go forth to battle with the dread Germoin."

I to Ferdiah said: "Oh, come, my brother,"

I to the ever-generous Luaigh said, I to fair Baetan's son, and many another: "Come, let us go and fight this foe so dread."

Crossing the sea in s.h.i.+ps of peaceful traders, All of us came to lone Lind Formairt's lake, With us we brought four hundred brave invaders Out of the islands of the Athisech.

I and Ferdiah were the first to enter, Where he himself, the dread Germoin, held rule, Rind, Nial's son, I clove from head to centre, Ruad I killed, the son of Finniule.

First on the sh.o.r.e, as swift our fleet s.h.i.+ps flew there, Blath, son of Calba of red swords, was slain; Struck by Ferdiah, Luaigh also slew there Fierce rude Mugarne of the Torrian main.