[74] This piece is what is usually called “Urnuidh Oisiain,” or
“Ossian’s prayer.” There are many such colloquies in the Gaelic, many
of them bearing no marks of great antiquity. It will be found that
in the Gaelic the poem is divided. This arose from a misplacing of
different parts of it in the MS., which was not observed till the first
part was printed off. In the English the whole is given consecutively.
Tell us, O Patrick, what honour is ours,
Do the Feine of Ireland in heaven now dwell?
In truth I can tell thee, thou Ossian of fame,
That no heaven has thy father, Oscar, or Gaul.
Sad is the tale thou tellest me, Priest,
I worshipping God while the Feine have no heaven.
Shalt thou not fare well thyself in that city,
Though ne’er should thy father, Caoilte, and Oscar be there?
Little joy would it bring to me to sit in that city,
Without Caoilte, and Oscar, as well as my father.
Better see the face of heaven’s son each day,
Than all the gold on earth, were it thine to possess.
Tell us, thou Priest of the Holy city, the tale;
In return I’ll recount thee the battle of Gaura.
If the tale of that city thou desir’st, old man,
No thirst, no hunger, want, reproach are there.
Who are heaven’s sons? more noble are the Feinn:
Are they hard of heart? have thou mercy, Cleric;
Unlike them are the Feine, unlike them altogether,
Never on the green plain did they seek the chase.
For thy love’s sake, Patrick, forsake not the heroes,
Unknown to heaven’s King, bring thou in the Feinn.
Though little room you’d take, not one of your race,
Unknown to heaven’s King, shall get beneath his roof.
How different Mac Cumhail, the Feinn’s noble king,
All men, uninvited, might enter his great house.
Sad is that, old man, and thy life’s close so near,
That thou should’st so unjustly judge of my great king.
Better the fierce conflict of Finn and his Feinn,
Than thy holy master, and thyself together.
Mournful, poor old man, that thou should’st folly speak,
Better God for a day than all of Erin’s Feinn.
Though few be my days, and my life’s close near,
Patrick defame not the nobles of clan Boisgne.
Thou can’st never tell, Ossian, son to the Queen,
How different your nobles from those of my Lord.
Were even Conan living, the least of the Feinn,
He would not suffer thy insolence, Cleric.
Speak not thus, Ossian, savage are thy words,
Take thee now thy rest, and guide thee by my rule.
Did’st thou see the fight, and the noble banners,
Never would’st thou think but of the glory of the Feinn.
Ossian, Prince’s son, ’twill be thy soul’s great loss
That thou now think’st only of the battles of the Feinn.
Did’st thou hear the hounds, and the sounds of the hunt,
Thou would’st rather be there than in the holy city.
That is sad, old man, if the glory of the chase
Be greater than all which Heaven above can yield.
Say not so, Patrick, empty are thy words,
Indeed and in truth, better Finn and the Feinn.
By thy hand, Boisgne’s son, not empty are my words,
Better is one angel than Finn and the Feinn.
Were I only now as I was at Gaura’s fight,
I would punish thy reproach of Erin’s noble Feinn.
Thy pride is all gone, for all thy future days,
None are now left of thy band but thyself.
Were my men in life I’d not hear thy howling,
And I’d make thee to suffer in return for thy talk.
Though all of these yet lived, and were now joined together,
I’d still not speak only of the Feinn’s seven bands.
Seven times the number that thou hast of priests,
Fell all in battle by Oscar alone.
Thou’rt now in thy last days, old and senseless man,
Cease now thy speaking, and come away with me;
Did’st thou see the men of cowls, Finn’s son, in Alve,
Thou would’st not as thou dost reproach the men of heaven.
No less was our great band, when we were met in Taura,
Reproachful are the words thou speak’st of the great king,
I will forgive thee, Cleric, although thou dost not tell.
Tell.