A Highland Regiment/Clytemnestra

UT of the drinking cup, Out of my own hearth-fire, The taint of blood goes up. The scent of the burning pyre. When the feasters' shout is high. Or the spinning maidens sing, I hear the dead man's cry, The dead who was my king.

For this is an ageless thing, And the blood runs fresh again In the cleansing draught from the spring And the stored wine I drain. And the joyous marriage-song, And the drinking-song at the board, Is the voice that sobbed so long In the agony of my lord.

Oh dark stern face of him I wedded and could not love, Oh terrible eyes grown dim And torn black hair above. Oh hands so strong in fight, So weak in the folding net, Dead feet that by day and night Follow the slayer yet,

Lo I am drawing near To the door of the house of death. Must I for ever hear The sound of the labouring breath, Must I for ever see The murdered body lie. And on my own roof-tree The blood that will not dry ?

1914