[
FRAGMENT
]
VII
.
WHY
openest
thou
afresh
the
spring
of
my
grief
,
O
son
of
Alpin
,
inquiring
how
Oscur
fell
?
My
eyes
are
blind
with
tears
;
but
memory
beams
on
my
heart
.
How
can
I
relate
the
mournful
death
of
the
head
of
the
people
!
Prince
of
the
warriours
,
Oscur
my
son
,
shall
I
see
thee
no
more
!
HE
fell
as
the
moon
in
a
storm
;
as
the
sun
from
the
midst
of
his
course
,
when
clouds
rise
from
the
waste
of
the
waves
,
when
the
blackness
of
the
storm
inwraps
the
rocks
of
Ardannider
.
I
,
like
an
ancient
oak
on
Morven
,
I
moulder
alone
in
my
place
.
The
blast
hath
lop
ped
my
branches
away
;
and
I
tremble
at
the
wings
of
the
north
.
Prince
of
the
warriors
,
Oscur
my
son
!
shall
I
see
thee
no
more
!
DERMID
and
Oscur
were
one
:
They
reaped
the
battle
together
.
Their
friendship
was
strong
as
their
steel
;
and
death
walked
between
them
to
the
field
.
They
came
on
the
foe
like
two
rocks
falling
from
the
brows
of
Ardven
.
Their
swords
were
stained
with
the
blood
of
the
valiant
:
warriours
fainted
at
their
names
.
Who
was
a
match
for
Oscur
,
but
Dermid
?
and
who
for
Dermid
,
but
Oscur
?
THEY
killed
,
mighty
Dargo
in
the
field
;
Dargo
before
invincible
.
His
daughter
was
fair
as
the
morn
;
mild
as
the
beam
of
night
.
Her
eyes
,
like
two
stars
in
a
shower
:
her
breath
,
the
gale
of
spring
:
her
breasts
,
as
the
new-fallen
snow
floating
on
the
moving
heath
.
The
warriours
saw
her
,
and
loved
;
their
souls
were
fixed
on
the
maid
.
Each
loved
her
,
as
his
fame
;
each
must
pos
sess
her
or
die
.
But
her
soul
was
fixed
on
Oscur
;
my
son
was
the
youth
of
her
love
.
She
forgot
the
blood
of
her
father
;
and
loved
the
hand
that
slew
him
.
SON
of
Oscian
,
said
Dermid
,
I
love
;
O
Oscur
,
I
love
this
maid
.
But
her
soul
cleaveth
unto
thee
;
and
nothing
can
heal
Dermid
.
Here
,
pierce
this
bosom
,
Oscur
;
relieve
me
,
my
friend
,
with
thy
sword
.
MY
sword
,
son
of
Morny
,
shall
ne
ver
be
stained
with
the
blood
of
Der
mid
.
WHO
then
is
worthy
to
slay
me
,
O
Oscur
son
of
Oscian
?
Let
not
my
life
pass
away
unknown
.
Let
none
but
Os
cur
slay
me
.
Send
me
with
honour
to
the
grave
,
and
let
my
death
be
renown
ed
.
DERMID
,
make
use
of
thy
sword
;
son
of
Morny
,
wield
thy
steel
.
Would
that
I
fell
with
thee
!
that
my
death
came
from
the
hand
of
Dermid
!
THEY
sought
by
the
brook
of
the
mountain
;
by
the
streams
of
Branno
.
Blood
tinged
the
silvery
stream
,
and
crudled
round
the
mossy
stones
.
Der
mid
the
graceful
fell
;
fell
,
and
smiled
in
death
.
AND
fallest
thou
,
son
of
Morny
;
fallest
thou
by
Oscur's
hand
!
Dermid
invincible
in
war
,
thus
do
I
see
thee
fall
!
—
He
went
,
and
returned
to
the
maid
whom
he
loved
;
returned
,
but
she
per
ceived
his
grief
.
WHY
that
gloom
,
son
of
Oscian
?
what
shades
thy
mighty
soul
?
THOUGH
once
renowned
for
the
bow
,
O
maid
,
I
have
lost
my
same
.
Fixed
on
a
tree
by
the
brook
of
the
hill
,
is
the
shield
of
Gormur
the
brave
,
whom
in
battle
I
slew
.
I
have
wasted
the
day
in
vain
,
nor
could
my
arrow
pierce
it
.
LET
me
try
,
son
of
Oscian
,
the
skill
of
Dargo's
daughter
.
My
hands
were
taught
the
bow
:
my
father
delighted
in
my
skill
.
SHE
went
.
He
stood
behind
the
shield
.
Her
arrow
flew
and
pierced
his
breast
Nothing
was
held
by
the
ancient
Highlanders
more
essential
to
their
glory
,
than
to
die
by
the
hand
of
some
person
worthy
or
renowned
.
This
was
the
occasion
of
Oscur's
contriving
to
be
slain
by
his
mistress
,
now
that
he
was
weary
of
life
.
In
those
early
times
suicide
was
utterly
unknown
among
that
people
,
and
no
traces
of
it
are
found
in
the
old
poetry
.
Whence
the
translator
suspects
the
account
that
follows
of
the
daughter
of
Dargo
killing
herself
,
to
be
the
interpola
tion
of
some
later
Bard
.
.
BLESSED
be
that
hand
of
snow
;
and
blessed
thy
bow
of
yew
!
I
fall
resolved
on
death
:
and
who
but
the
daughter
of
Dargo
was
worthy
to
slay
me
?
Lay
me
in
the
earth
,
my
fair-one
;
lay
me
by
the
side
of
Dermid
.
OSCUR
!
I
have
the
blood
,
the
soul
of
the
mighty
Dargo
.
Well
pleased
I
can
meet
death
.
My
sorrow
I
can
end
thus
.
—
She
pierced
her
white
bosom
with
steel
.
She
fell
;
she
trembled
;
and
died
.
BY
the
brook
of
the
hill
their
graves
are
laid
;
a
birch's
unequal
shade
covers
their
tomb
.
Often
on
their
green
earth
en
tombs
the
branchy
sons
of
the
moun
tain
feed
,
when
mid-day
is
all
in
flames
,
and
silence
is
over
all
the
hills
.