Page:Selections from Ancient Irish Poetry - Meyer.djvu/114

 THE DESERTED HOME

Sadly talks the blackbird here. Well I know the woe he found: No matter who cut down his nest, For its young it was destroyed.

I myself not long ago Found the woe he now has found. Well I read thy song, O bird, For the ruin of thy home.

Thy heart, O blackbird, burnt within At the deed of reckless man: Thy nest bereft of young and egg The cowherd deems a trifling tale.

At thy clear notes they used to come, Thy new-fledged children, from afar; No bird now comes from out thy house, Across its edge the nettle grows.

They murdered them, the cowherd lads, All thy children in one day: One the fate to me and thee, My own children live no more.

There was feeding by thy side Thy mate, a bird from o'er the sea: Then the snare entangled her, At the cowherds' hands she died.

O Thou, the Shaper of the world! Uneven hands Thou layst on us: Our fellows at our side are spared, Their wives and children are alive.