Ode to Osgur, Son of Oisin
"To Osgur, the Son of Oisin, at the Battle of Gaura."
From: 296 C.E. To: 296 C.E.
Location: Ireland
This ode to Osgur, son of Oisin and grandson of Fionn Mac Cumhaill, is attributed to his uncle Fergus, Fionn's high poet. It recounts the Battle of Gabhra in 296 CE, fought between Fionn's fianna and the united forces of Ulster, Leinster, and Connacht. According to myth, the fianna were hopelessly outnumbered and charged into a slaughter. The leader of the opposing forces, Cairbre Lifechair, died with Osgur in combat. The battle ends with Fionn's army destroyed and the power of the fianna ended.
Note: This article has been excerpted from a larger work in the public domain and shared here due to its historical value. It may contain outdated ideas and language that do not reflect TOTA’s opinions and beliefs.
To Osgur, the Son of Oisin, at the Battle of Gaura
Translated by Charlotte Brooke
Rise, might of Erin! Rise! O! Osgur of the generous soul! Now on the foe's astonish'd eyes Let thy proud ensign's wave dismay! Now let the thunder of thy battle roll, And bear the palm of strength and victory away.
Son of the sire whose stroke is fate, Be thou in might supreme; Let conquest of thy arm await In each conflicting hour; Slight let the force of adverse numbers seem, Till o'er their prostrate ranks thy shouting squadrons pour!
O, hear the voice of lofty song! Obey the bard! Stop! stop M'Garai! Check his pride, And rush resistless on each regal foe! Thin their proud ranks, and give the smoking tide Of hostile blood to flow! Mark where Mac Cormac pours along! Rush on--retard His haughty progress! Let thy might Rise, in the deathful fight, O'er thy prime foe supreme, And let the stream Of valour flow, Until thy brandish'd sword Shall humble ev'ry haughty foe. And justice be restored.
Restless as the spirit of the night, In storms and terrors drest; Withering the force of every hostile breast, Rush on the ranks of fight! Youth of fierce deeds and noble soul! Rend scatter wide the foe Swift forward rush, and lay the waing pride Of yon high ensigns low! Thine be the battle thine the sway! On, on to Cairbre hew thy conquering way, And let thy deathful arm dash safety from his side! As the proud wave, on whose broad back The storm its burden heaves, Drives on the scattered wreck, Its ruin leaves; So let thy sweeping progress roll, Fierce, resistless, rapid, strong; Pour, like the billow of the flood, o'erwhelming might along!
From king to king, let death thy steps await, Thou messenger of fate, Whose awful mandate thou art chosen to bear: Take no vain truce, no respite yield, Till thine be the contested field; O thou, of championed fame the royal heir! Pierce the proud squadrons of the foe, And o'er the slaughtered heaps triumphant rise! Oh, in fierce charms and lovely might array'd! Bright, in the front of battle, wave thy blade! Oh, let thy fury rise upon my voice! Rush on, and, glorying in thy strength, rejoice! Mark where yon bloody ensign flies! Rush! Seize it! Lay its haughty triumphs low!
Wide around the carnage spread! Heavy be the heaps of dead! Roll on thy rapid might, Thou roaring stream of prowess in the fight! What though Finn be distant far, Art thou not thyself a war? Victory shall be all thine own, And this day's glory thine, and thine alone! Be thou the foremost of thy race in fame! So shall the bard exalt thy deathless name! So shall thy sword supreme o'er numbers rise, And vanquished Tamor's groans ascend the skies!
Though unequal be the fight! Though unnumbered be the foe, No thought on fear or on defeat bestow, For conquest waits to crown thy cause, and thy successful might! Rush, therefore, on amid the battle's rage, Where fierce contending kings engage, And powerless lay thy proud opponents low!
Wide the vengeful ruin spread! Heap the groaning field with dead! Furious be thy gleaming sword, Death with every stroke descend! Thou whose fame earth can no match afford; That fame which shall through time, as through the world, extend!
Shower thy might upon the foe! Lay their pride in Gabhra, low! Thine the sway of this contested field! To thee for aid the Fenii fly; On that brave arm thy country's hopes rely, From every foe thy native land to shield!
Aspect of beauty! Pride of praise! Summit of heroic fame! O theme of Erin! Youth of matchless deeds! Think, think on thy wrongs! Now, now let vengeance raise Thy valiant arm!and let destruction flame, Till low, beneath thy sword, each chief of Ulster lies! O prince of numerous hosts and bounding steeds! Raise thy red shield, with tenfold force endu'd! Forsake not the fam'd path thy fathers have pursu'd, But let, with theirs, thy equal honors rise!
Hark! Anguish groans--the battle bleeds Before thy spear! Its flight is death! Now, o'er the heath, The foe recedes!
And wide the hostile crimson flows! See how it dyes thy deathful blade! See, in dismay, each routed squadron flies! Now, now thy havoc thins the ranks of fight, And scatters o'er the field thy foes! O still be thy increasing force display'd! Slack not the noble ardour of thy might! Pursue--pursue with death their flight! Rise, arm of Erin--rise.
H. R. Montgomery, Specimens of the Early Native Poetry of Ireland, in English Metrical Translations (Dublin: Hodges, Figgis, 1892), 75.
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