Poetry Archives

Draw near to the tables, ye that wear the cloaks;
Here ye have flesh, but it is not roast flesh,
Nor boiled in pots, nor cooked for feasting,
But my dear Bourke—och, och after been slain.

You, young women, who are drinking wine there,
Let my sharp screeches pierce your heart.
If I am wise I may get whatever is my lot,
But you will never—och, och. och—get another brother!

O young woman, don’t you pity my sorrow/
My mourning over the bier of my spouse?
A lock of his hair is within my purse,
And his offspring—och, och-hidden within me!