(An eleventh-century poem)
Keenly cries the blackbird now;
From the bough his nest is gone.
For his slaughtered mate and young
Still his tongue talks on and on.
Such, alas! not long ago
Was the woe my heart befell;
Therefore, wherefore thine so grieves
It perceives, O bird, too well!
Poor heart burnt with grief within
By the sin of that rash band!
Little could they guess thy care,
Crying there, or understand.
From afar at thy clear call
Fluttered all thy new-fledged brood.
Now thy nest of love lies hid
Down amid the nettles rude.
In one day the herd-boy crew
Careless slew thy fledgelings fine.
One the fate to thine and thee,
One the fate to me and mine.
As thy mate upon the mead
Chirruped, feeding at thy side,
Taken in their snaring strands,
At the herd-boy's hands she died.
O Thou Framer of our fates,
Not an equal lot have all!
Neighbour's wife and child are spared,
Ours, as though uncared for, fall.
Fairy hosts with blasting death
Breathed on mine a breath abhorred;
Bloodless though their evil ire,
It was direr than the sword.
Woe our wife! and woe our young!
Sorrow-wrung our hearts complain!
Of each fair and faithful one
Tidings none or trace remain!