Such, alas! not long ago
    Was the woe my heart befell;
  Therefore, wherefore thine so grieves
    It perceives, O bird, too well!

  Poor heart burnt with grief within
    By the sin of that rash band! 
  Little could they guess thy care,
    Crying there, or understand.

  From afar at thy clear call
    Fluttered all thy new-fledged brood. 
  Now thy nest of love lies hid
    Down amid the nettles rude.

  In one day the herd-boy crew
    Careless slew thy fledgelings fine. 
  One the fate to thine and thee,
    One the fate to me and mine.

  As thy mate upon the mead
    Chirruped, feeding at thy side,
  Taken in their snaring strands,
    At the herd-boy’s hands she died.

  O Thou Framer of our fates,
    Not an equal lot have all! 
  Neighbour’s wife and child are spared,
    Ours, as though uncared for, fall.

  Fairy hosts with blasting death
    Breathed on mine a breath abhorred;
  Bloodless though their evil ire,
    It was direr than the sword.

  Woe our wife! and woe our young! 
    Sorrow-wrung our hearts complain! 
  Of each fair and faithful one
    Tidings none or trace remain!

THE MOTHERS’ LAMENT AT THE SLAUGHTER OF THE INNOCENTS

(Probably a poem of the eleventh century.  It is written in Rosg metre, and was first published in The Gaelic Journal, May 1891.)

Then, as the executioner plucked her son from her breast, one of the women said: 

   “Why are you tearing
    Away to his doom
  The child of my caring,
    The fruit of my womb. 
  Till nine months were o’er,
  His burthen I bore,
  Then his pretty lips pressed
  The glad milk from my breast,
  And my whole heart he filled,
  And my whole life he thrilled.

  “All my strength dies;
  My tongue speechless lies;
  Darkened are my eyes;
  His breath was the breath of me;
  His death is the death of me!”

Then another woman said: 

“Tis my own son that from me you wring, I deceived not the King.  But slay me, even me, And let my boy be.  A mother most hapless, My bosom is sapless.  Mine eyes one tearful river, My frame one fearful shiver, My husband sonless ever, And I a sonless wife To live a death in life.  O, my son!  O, God of Truth!  O, my unrewarded youth!  O, my birthless sicknesses, Until doom without redress!  O, my bosom’s silent nest!  O, the heart broke in my breast!”

Then said another woman: 

   “Murderers, obeying
    Herod’s wicked willing,
  One ye would be slaying,
    Many are ye killing. 
  Infants would ye smother? 
    Ruffians ye have rather
    Wounded many a father,
  Slaughtered many a mother. 
  Hell’s black jaws your horrid deed is glutting,
  Heaven’s white gate against your black souls shutting.