'Tis with fame, glory and vain renown
They want to make up for your loss
But you won't take them because
The oak of your breed has been cut down
And for such grief there's no consolation
For 'tis better for a man to bleed
To death, than to have his own seed
Wiped off the face of creation
Therefore sleep, drop your lids forever:
Brave Brian is now dead, and so his brothers two
No more manly deeds will They do
Nor magic wondrous, nor cunning clever
Let Erin the Fair claim Their motherhood
Let the minstrels Their great feats hymn,
Let the De Danaans fill their cups to the rim
And praise Their unparallelled brotherhood
But you, Turenn the Old, Turenn the Sad,
What song will you sing but a plaintive dirge
To convey your pain and the pressing urge
To join Them in death, relieved and glad
For honour men die, for glory men kill
For vain renown their soul they bet
You're too old now other sons to beget
The ones you had in honour died, but are dead still
Lay yourself along their rotting youth
And hope for the grave's silent sooth
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem