Poems MacCarthy, Florence Denis

82
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 hoarse, 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 shield,
Than thou, Ferdiah, Daman's ruddy son.
Never since Aife's only son I slew,
Not knowing who the gallant youth might be,--