Post by Blackbird on Apr 17, 2006 11:42:22 GMT -1
Rhiannon's Lament
Mare named am I, horse harness worn
Cast down from queen to burden beast
Our golden son from my arms torn
And heavy lies my grief
What is the fairest flower
If on its stem it never fades?
And what is gold if all is gold?
Or light with never shade?
I watched well Lord, with wistful eyes
When came you on my father’s hill
Face fair, hair lent by Thunderer’s sky
I watched you and was lost.
The milk-white mare awaits your call
Thrice tried, must I outpace you, Lord?
This time, this place, these words must fall
To break the spell apart.
How could the moon catch up the sun?
Or fruit and flower be on one branch?
And how can one and one make one?
Will four times be the charm?
When blossom flies forth on the breeze
My Lord, I am your happy bride
And midnight threads are twined with gold
I stand proud at your side
And in my father’s shining court
Full glorious is our wedding feast
But Gwawl, who long my hand has sought
Has laid his trap with care.
Gwawl of clever crafted word
Tongue twists to trick my foolish love
But I can play him word for word
My craft the match of his
Two men are set for one maid’s hand
But my snare is the better laid
Now golden Gwawl is badger-bound
And bound, my Lord and I.
What is the sun without the moon?
How can there be song without taking breath?
Life is not precious without the tomb
And blissful hours soon past.
My son was born upon May Eve
I thought my heart would burst with joy
Well wronged was I and now I grieve,
I mourn my stolen son
The guarding maids fell into sleep
And while they dreamed, my son was lost
They killed a pup and smeared the sheets
And drenched my hands with blood.
I stand before and not beside
My midnight lord whose face is pale
He weeps to see his blooded bride
Yet honour stays his hand.
Condemn me not to death, my Lord
And ask the hound where are her whelps
I cry with grief and ire, ‘my Lord,
Great wrong to me is done.’
But three maids to the one of me
If not devoured, where is the babe?
The sentence spoke, I will not die
Hard penance must I make.
With collar round my noble neck
I stand beside the mounting block
And carry lords upon my back
And sing them my lament.
Mare named am I, horse harness worn
Cast down from queen to burden beast
Our golden son from my arms torn
And heavy lies my grief.
(c) Blackbird Hollins
April 2005
Mare named am I, horse harness worn
Cast down from queen to burden beast
Our golden son from my arms torn
And heavy lies my grief
What is the fairest flower
If on its stem it never fades?
And what is gold if all is gold?
Or light with never shade?
I watched well Lord, with wistful eyes
When came you on my father’s hill
Face fair, hair lent by Thunderer’s sky
I watched you and was lost.
The milk-white mare awaits your call
Thrice tried, must I outpace you, Lord?
This time, this place, these words must fall
To break the spell apart.
How could the moon catch up the sun?
Or fruit and flower be on one branch?
And how can one and one make one?
Will four times be the charm?
When blossom flies forth on the breeze
My Lord, I am your happy bride
And midnight threads are twined with gold
I stand proud at your side
And in my father’s shining court
Full glorious is our wedding feast
But Gwawl, who long my hand has sought
Has laid his trap with care.
Gwawl of clever crafted word
Tongue twists to trick my foolish love
But I can play him word for word
My craft the match of his
Two men are set for one maid’s hand
But my snare is the better laid
Now golden Gwawl is badger-bound
And bound, my Lord and I.
What is the sun without the moon?
How can there be song without taking breath?
Life is not precious without the tomb
And blissful hours soon past.
My son was born upon May Eve
I thought my heart would burst with joy
Well wronged was I and now I grieve,
I mourn my stolen son
The guarding maids fell into sleep
And while they dreamed, my son was lost
They killed a pup and smeared the sheets
And drenched my hands with blood.
I stand before and not beside
My midnight lord whose face is pale
He weeps to see his blooded bride
Yet honour stays his hand.
Condemn me not to death, my Lord
And ask the hound where are her whelps
I cry with grief and ire, ‘my Lord,
Great wrong to me is done.’
But three maids to the one of me
If not devoured, where is the babe?
The sentence spoke, I will not die
Hard penance must I make.
With collar round my noble neck
I stand beside the mounting block
And carry lords upon my back
And sing them my lament.
Mare named am I, horse harness worn
Cast down from queen to burden beast
Our golden son from my arms torn
And heavy lies my grief.
(c) Blackbird Hollins
April 2005
