The Rune-Master

ARCH-SCHOLAR they'll call you, Kuno Mayer, Who know the word Behind the word The men of learning . . . But who will tell them Of the blackbird That your heart held? On an old thorn-tree By an ancient rath You heard him sing, And with runes you charmed him Till he stayed with you, Giving clear song. He sang o'er all That Maravaun Told King Guire; And he told you how Bran heard the singing Of a lovely woman And sailed for Faerie; And of how slain princes Kept tryst with women Loved beyond The pain of death, In days when still The boat of Mananaun Bore towards Eirinn! Arch-scholar they'll call you Nay, Rune-master! You read in texts Not words only, But runes of old time; And when you spoke them A curlew cried Over grass-waste Tara, And a cuckoo called From the height of Cashel, And an eagle flew From Emain Macha! Ochone, ochone! That we'll see no more In the Eastern or The Western World Your great head over The lectern bending, Nor hear your lore By a pleasant fireside. But the runes you've read Have given us more Than the sword might win us: May kind saints of Eirinn Be beside you Where birds on the Living Tree sing the Hours!