Ossian Collection > Poems of Ossian

CABEAIG-THURA. 37
When the king returned from the field
With heavy locks in graceful curls.
His blue helm was round the chiefs head,
Like light clouds upon the sun's face,
When he moves in his dusky garb, 25
Showing half his light in the sky.
His brave chiefs were behind the king ;
The feast of free shells was on high.
Fionn', turning to the tuneful band,
Asked a lay from the chief of bards. 30
" Ye high-sounding voices of Cona,
Ye bards who converse about age,
By whom rises up on our souls
A great army of blue-mailed heroes,
Sweet to me is the joy of grief, 35
Like the mild dew of gentle spring,
That bends the oak's boughs on the hill,
When their young tender leaves come forth.
Then upraise ye, my bards, the song ;
To-morrow my ship will set sail ; 40
I'll steer through the blue glens of waves,
To the rock of heroes and chiefs,
The green home of generous Sarno,
Thy dwelling, Caomh-mhala of locks,
Where Cathul, the chieftain, doth spread 45
The banquet on the hill with pride ;
The dun boars in his woods are rife ;
The wood of storms will hear the chase.
" Cronan, thou son of pleasant songs,
Minfhonn, of light hand on the harp, 50
Raise the story of brown-haired Silric :