The Dead Lover Silence, girl! What can you say? My thoughts are not of you, they stray; I think of nothing else tonight Except the battlefield and fight. My headless body tossed aside Lies on the slope whereon I died, And in that heap my head you see Near those of men who died with me. A lovers’ tryst is waste of breath Beside the final tryst with death, And so the lovers’ tryst we made I can keep only as a shade. All was foredoomed. Woe for my pride! My resting place was set aside, The battle to which I should go Where a strange hand would strike me low. I am not the first in body’s heat Who found some outland woman sweet, And though our parting tryst be drear It was your love that brought me here. It was for love alone I came, Leaving my gentle wife in shame: Had I but known what would befall How gladly would I have shunned it all. My mercenaries, true to the last, My bright-faced outlaw band held fast, That lofty yew-wood doomed to fall Into the earth that covers all. Had they but lived to swing a sword Not unavenged had been their lord, And if their master still had breath Not unavenged would be their death. No certain shadow of defeat Could overcloud their battle heat, The stock of men who knew no fear They sang and called, their voices clear. Up to the moment when they died They were still active, full of pride; Fearful the storm through which they passed— The green wood holds them all at last. Why should you spend a night of dread Alone among the unburied dead? Why linger with an old love there? Back to your home! But take my gear. For much that living men held dear Is all about you here and here, Valueless to the Great Queen Who washes entrails in the stream. From the spear's point that crowned the fight The Great Queen flashed upon my sight; Hers are the spoils that please her best; Well may she laugh at all the rest. Boldly she tosses back her hair; Only the brave her eye can dare. Be calm, there is nothing she can do, Near as she seems to such as you. From human things I must take flight After my men with the first light; Already the night’s end has come; Do not stay here, back to your home! Men will remember many a day The song of Fohad Cananne; Famous shall be my speech with you So do what I would have you do. That future men may hear me praised Above me let a great tomb be raised; Your labour shall not be in vain, Your love being passed, to ease its pain. Now my pierced body must descend To torture where the fiends attend; Worldly love is a foolish thing Beside the worship of Heaven’s king. It is the blackbird! Once again He calls at dawn to living men; My voice, my face are of the dead. Silence! What is there to be said? Note: From a ninth-century historical poem of fifty verses. Fohad, who is leader of a fian or amusrad—a band of mercenaries—elopes with the wife of another mercenary chief. He is killed in battle but returns to keep his tryst. Such historical poems are usually very dull, being full of unnecessary information, but the language of this poem is of extraordinary beauty. Source: Frank O'Connor; The Little Monasteries; Dublin; Dolmen Press; 1963, 1976 (1976 ed.); pp.18-21