Though eager troops, and fair to see,[FN#43]
May home return, though these ye wait: 
When Usna’s sons came home to me,
They came with more heroic state.

With hazel mead, my Naisi stood: 
And near our fire his bath I’d pour;
On Aindle’s stately back the wood;
On Ardan’s ox, or goodly boar.

Though sweet that goodly mead ye think
That warlike Conor drinks in hall,
I oft have known a sweeter drink,
Where leaps in foam the waterfall: 

Our board was spread beneath the tree,
And Naisi raised the cooking flame: 
More sweet than honey-sauced to me
Was meat, prepared from Naisi’s game.

[FN#43] A literal rendering of this poem will be found in the notes, p. 187.

Though well your horns may music blow,
Though sweet each month your pipes may sound,
I fearless say, that well I know
A sweeter strain I oft have found.

Though horns and pipes be sounding clear,
Though Conor’s mind in these rejoice,
More magic strain, more sweet, more dear
Was Usna’s Children’s noble voice.

Like sound of wave, rolled Naisi’s bass;
We’d hear him long, so sweet he sang: 
And Ardan’s voice took middle place;
And clearly Aindle’s tenor rang.

Now Naisi lies within his tomb: 
A sorry guard his friends supplied;
His kindred poured his cup of doom,
That poisoned cup, by which he died.

Ah!  Berthan dear! thy lands are fair;
Thy men are proud, though hills be stern: 
Alas! to-day I rise not there
To wait for Usna’s sons’ return.

That firm, just mind, so loved, alas! 
The dear shy youth, with touch of scorn,
I loved with him through woods to pass,
And girding in the early morn.

When bent on foes, they boded ill,
Those dear grey eyes, that maids adored;
When, spent with toil, his troops lay still,
Through Irish woods his tenor soared.

For this it is, no more I sleep;
No more my nails with pink I stain: 
No joy can break the watch I keep;
For Usna’s sons come not again.

For half the night no sleep I find;
No couch can me to rest beguile: 
’Mid crowds of thoughts still strays my mind;
I find no time to eat or smile.

In eastern Emain’s proud array
No time to joy is left for me;
For gorgeous house, and garments gay,
Nor peace, nor joy, nor rest can be.

And when Conor sought to soothe her; thus Deirdre would answer him: 

Ah Conor! what of thee!  I naught can do! 
Lament and sorrow on my life have passed: 
The ill you fashioned lives my whole life through;
A little time your love for me would last.

The man to me most fair beneath the sky,
The man I loved, in death away you tore: 
The crime you did was great; for, till I die,
That face I loved I never shall see more.

That he is gone is all my sorrow still;
Before me looms the shape of Usna’s son;
Though o’er his body white is yon dark hill,
There’s much I’d lavish, if but him I won.