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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE NIGHT OF THE KINGS by THOMAS WALSH

First Line: THE CHIEFTAINS AND DRUIDS OF ULADH WOULD
Last Line: NEVER SHALL CHIEFTAINS AND DRUIDS SIT ROUND AT SUCH FEASTING AGAIN!
Subject(s): COURTS & COURTIERS;
THE chieftains and druids of Uladh would clothe him in samite and gold
And set him on high at the feastings when sagas of kings would be told,—
The battles, and courtships, and forays,—the boast of their fathers of old.

Till one night as they crouched by their targes ere dawn lit the spears on the
plain
They called for Donn-Bo: "Let the watching of kings be made glad with his
strain!"
And he came o'er the armies of Uladh with blessings and love in his train.

But he pleaded,—"High-King of Emaña, a boon for thy minstrel, a
boon,—
Grant but silence to-night ere the battle,—be glad with thy hounds and
buffoon,
And to-morrow Donn-Bo shall proclaim thee with music at rise of the moon."

They quaffed the red mead till the chariots at dawn over Uladh were hurled;
With the nightfall they gathered afar where the shreds of their war-cloaks were
furled;
And they pined for Donn-Bo, but he came not, though moonlight was white on the
world.

Clenched deep in his wounds was each fetish, the druid's enchantment was
long:—
"O kings that were once over Uladh,—ye breasts that heaved haughty and
strong!—
At dawn to the grasp of the hireling goes the beauty of life and the song!"

Then arose the rough Chief of Clan Connla: "Never yet hath the lad spoken
lie,—
I shall forth through the marches and seek him!"—Yea, there, out afar lay
awry—
A white corpse by the King of Emaña—Donn-Bo, like a star from the sky.

And around them the winds made the music they took from his harp-strings of
yore,—
Unhushed, though the hand of Clan Connla snatched the fair, severed head from
the gore,
As it moaned, "Stir me not till the dawning when the rime for my king will be
o'er!"

But Clan Connla made answer:—"The war-chiefs of Uladh are waiting their
share."
And bearing it off by the tresses, he bade it to chant for them there
In the light of the torches, set high on a pillar, its @3rann@1 of despair.

O never such story and music shall come from the minstrels of men,
As the mouth of Donn-Bo the belovéd gave forth in its wizardry then!—
Never shall chieftains and druids sit round at such feasting again!


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