Читать книгу The Mountainy Singer - Campbell Joseph, Joseph Campbell - Страница 11

I am Padraic Mor mac Cruimin,

Son of Domhnall of the Shroud,

Piper, like my kind before me,

To the household of MacLeod.

Death is in the seed of Cruimin —

All my music is a wail;

Early graves await the poets

And the pipers of the Gael.

Samhain gleans the golden harvests

Duly in their tide and time,

But my body’s fruit is blasted

Barely past the Bealtein prime.

Cethlenn claims the fairest fighters

Fitly for her own, her own,

But my seven sons are stricken

Where no battle-pipe is blown.

Flowers of the forest fallen

On the sliding summer stream —

Light and life and love are with me,

Then are vanished into dream.

Berried branches of the rowan

Rifled in the wizard wind —

Clan and generation leave me,

Lonely on the heath behind.

Who will soothe a father’s sorrow

When his seven sons are gone?

Who will watch him in his sleeping?

Who will wake him at the dawn?

Seven sons are taken from me

In the compass of a year;

Every bone is bose within me,

All my blood is white with fear.

Seven youths of brawn and beauty

Moulder in their mountain bed,

Up in storied Inis-Scathach

Where their fathers reaped their bread.

Nevermore upon the mountain,

Nevermore in fair or field,

Shall ye see the seven champions

Of the silver-mantled shield.

I will play the “Cumhadh na Cloinne”

Wildest of the rowth of tunes

Gathered by the love of mortal

From the olden druid runes.

Wail ye! Night is on the water;

Wind and wave are roaring loud —

Caoine for the fallen children

Of the piper of MacLeod.