Читать книгу Lyra Celtica: An Anthology of Representative Celtic Poetry онлайн

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Brown hair next his head’s skin,

And smooth red hair over that;

And fair-yellow hair, of the colour of gold;

And clasps on the top, holding it fast;—

Whose name is Cuchullin, Seimh-suailte,

Son of Aodh, son of Agh, son of other Aodh.—

His face is like red sparkles;—

Fast-moving on the plain like mountain fleet-mist;

Or like the speed of a hill hind;

Or like a hare on rented level ground.—

It was a frequent step—a fast step—a joyful step;—

The horses coming towards us:—

Like snow hewing the slopes;—

The panting and the snorting,

Of the horses coming towards thee.

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The lions of the hill are gone,

And I am left alone—alone—

Dig the grave both wide and deep,

For I am sick, and fain would sleep!

The falcons of the wood are flown,

And I am left alone—alone—

Dig the grave both deep and wide,

And let us slumber side by side.

The dragons of the rock are sleeping,

Sleep that wakes not for our weeping—

Dig the grave, and make it ready,