  When they are shut up by Fionn on a sea-girt rock, A Dialogue (Goll speaks) (Goll's wife replies) Which way, O Goll, is my way, and thou perished? Alas! few friends have I! Small praise that woman hath whose lord is gone And no protector nigh! And made his wife? Where in the East or West should one be sought To mend my broken life? Shall I take OÍsin, son of Fionn the Wise? Or Carroll of the blood-stained hand? Shall I make Angus, son of Hugh, my prize? Or swift-foot Corr, chief of the fighting-band? I am as good as they; aye, good and better, Daughter of Conall, Monarch of the West, Fostered was I with Conn the Hundred-Fighter, Best among all the best. Thee out of all I loved, thee my first master, Gentlest and bravest thou; Seven years we lived and loved, through calm and tumult, And shall I leave thee now? From that night till to-night I found thee never Of harsh and churlish mind; And here I vow, no other man shall touch me, Kind or unkind. Here on this narrow crag, foodless and sleepless, Thou takest thy last stand; A hundred heroes, Goll, lie rotting round thee, Slain by thy dauntless hand. In the wide ocean near us, life is teeming; Yet on this barren rock I sink from hunger, and the wild briny waters My thirst-pangs mock. Sent here to conquer thee; But fiercer yet the drought that steals my beauty Midst this surrounding sea. Though all my dear loved brothers by one caitiff Lay slaughtered in my sight, That man I'd call my friend, yea, I would love him, Could my thirst ease to-night. Eat, Son of Morna, batten on these dead bodies, This is my last behest; Feast well, gaunt Goll, then quench thy awful craving Here at my breast. Nought is there more to fear, nought to be hoped for, Of life and all bereft High on this crag, abandoned and forsaken, Nor hope nor shame is left. (Goll speaks) King Conall's daughter, cease this mad entreaty, Cease thou, I pray; Never have I a woman's counsel asked for, Far less to-day. Oh! pitiful how this thing hath befallen, Little red mouth! Lips that of old made speech and happy music, Now dry and harsh with drouth. By wave and land Was to be caught by Fionn and his battalions On some stark, foodless strand. Depart not yet; upon this barren islet, Beneath this brazen sky, Sweet lips and gentle heart, we sit together Until we die. |
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