Читать книгу Lyra Celtica - Various Authors - Страница 14

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Raise the Cromlech high!

Mac Moghcorb is slain,

And other men’s renown

Has leave to live again.

Cold at last he lies

’Neath the burial stone.

All the blood he shed

Could not save his own.

Stately, strong he went,

Through his nobles all,

When we paced together

Up the banquet-hall.

Dazzling white as lime,

Was his body fair,

Cherry-red his cheeks,

Raven-black his hair.

Razor-sharp his spear,

And the shield he bore,

High as champion’s head—

His arm was like an oar.

Never aught but truth

Spake my noble king;

Valour all his trust

In all his warfaring.

As the forkèd pole

Holds the roof-tree’s weight,

So my hero’s arm

Held the battle straight.

Terror went before him,

Death behind his back,

Well the wolves of Erinn

Knew his chariot’s track.

Seven bloody battles

He broke upon his foes,

In each a hundred heroes

Fell beneath his blows.

Once he fought at Fossud,

Thrice at Ath-finn-fail.

’Twas my king that conquered

At bloody Ath-an-Scaìl.

At the Boundary Stream

Fought the Royal Hound,

And for Bernas battle

Stands his name renowned.

Here he fought with Leinster—

Last of all his frays—

On the Hill of Cucorb’s Fate

High his Cromlech raise.