Oisín's Lament for the Fianna

In the gray dawn of a world grown old and strange, when the mist hung heavy over the hills of Ireland and the wind carried whispers of forgotten names, there stood upon a lonely height an ancient man whose eyes held the weight of centuries. This was Oisín, son of Fionn mac Cumhaill, last survivor of the mighty Fianna, returned at last from the Otherworld to find his homeland transformed beyond recognition.

Three hundred years had passed since he had ridden away with Niamh of the Golden Hair to the Land of Eternal Youth, though to him it had seemed but a few pleasant seasons. Now, aged and bent by the sudden weight of mortal years, he stood where once the great hall of the Fianna had echoed with laughter and song, and found only silence and empty stones.

The young monks who had found him wandering the countryside listened in wonder as the old warrior began to sing his lament, his voice still strong despite his frail body, carrying across the hills the echoes of a vanished age:

“O you who ask of the Fianna’s fate, Who question why I mourn and weep, Come listen to an old man’s tale Of heroes who have fallen asleep.

Where now are the horns that rang at dawn Across the valleys green and wide? Where now are the hounds that ran the deer With the Fianna by their side?

The hunting horns are silent now, The hounds lie cold beneath the clay, And all the heroes I once knew Have passed like mist at break of day.”

His voice carried the pain of loss too great for tears, the anguish of a man who has outlived his entire world. The monks, accustomed to Latin hymns and sacred chants, had never heard such music - wild and proud and heartbreaking, filled with the very soul of ancient Ireland.

“Tell us of these Fianna,” one young monk whispered. “Tell us of your father Fionn and the heroes who rode with him.”

Oisín turned his ancient eyes toward the boy, and for a moment they blazed with the fire of his youth.

“Fionn mac Cumhaill was my father’s name, The greatest chief who ever drew breath, Wise as the salmon, brave as the stag, Who feared neither danger nor death.

His hair was white as the winter snow, His voice like thunder on the hill, His spear flew straight as the eagle’s flight, And bent to no other man’s will.

Beside him stood great Goll mac Morna, Though once they were bitter foes, United by honor and brotherhood, Together they faced all who opposed.

There was Diarmuid of the Love Spot fair, Whose beauty no woman could resist, And Caílte with the swiftest feet That ever the morning mist kissed.

Oscar was there, my own dear son, Brave as a lion, strong as a tree, The battle-fury burned in his heart, But gentle and kind was he.

Conan Maol with his bitter tongue, Who mocked both coward and brave, And Fergus of the True Lips, Whose word was his bond to the grave.”

As Oisín spoke each name, the ghosts of memory seemed to stir around him. The monks could almost see the mighty warriors gathering in the mist - tall figures in cloaks of many colors, bearing shields and spears, their faces noble and proud.

“How did they live, these heroes of old?” asked another monk. “What were their days like in that bygone time?”

Oisín’s voice grew warm with remembrance:

“Ah, what days those were, what golden days, When Ireland was young and the world was new! We rose with the sun on the eastern hills, And our deeds were bold and true.

The deer ran swift in the morning light, The salmon leaped silver in the stream, And we who hunted and fought and sang Lived every moment as in a dream.

In autumn we gathered the harvest of war, Defending the weak from the strong, In winter we sat by the roaring fire And told our tales in song.

In spring we rode to settle disputes, Justice our banner and guide, In summer we hunted the forests green With our hounds running by our side.

No gold could buy a place with us, No silver could purchase our trust, A man must prove his courage first, His honor free from rust.

The tests were hard that we set for all Who sought to join our band: Could he run twelve miles without pause? Could he fight with either hand?

Could he compose a poem fair While running at full speed? Could he leap over a spear held high And duck beneath the steed?

Could he pull a thorn from his foot While racing through the wood? Could he defend a widow’s right And protect the orphaned child?

These were the tests we set for men Who wished to bear our name, And those who passed became our own, Bound by honor’s flame.”

The young monks listened in amazement. Such a world seemed impossible to them, trained as they were in humility and submission. But Oisín continued his song, painting pictures of a time when courage and honor were the highest virtues:

“O the feasts we held in the great stone halls When the day’s work was done! The mead flowed golden in silver cups, And the harpers’ songs were spun.

The storytellers wove their tales Of gods and heroes bold, While the fire burned bright and the shadows danced And new legends were told.

Fionn would sit in the seat of honor, His white hair gleaming bright, And we would listen to his wisdom Long into the night.

He spoke of duty and justice, Of the weak and the strong, Of how a true hero must always stand Against cruelty and wrong.

‘Remember,’ he would tell us all, ‘That strength without mercy is vain, That victory without honor won Is nothing but lasting shame.

We are the shield of Ireland, The sword that guards her peace, Our lives are not our own to live Until her troubles cease.’

Such words he spoke, such noble thoughts, That made our spirits soar, And we who heard them understood What we were fighting for.”

As Oisín sang, his voice began to break with emotion. The weight of three centuries pressed down upon him, and the contrast between the heroic past and the diminished present was too much to bear:

“But where are they now, those mighty ones, Those friends of my youth so dear? Oscar lies cold beneath the earth, His bright sword rusted here.

Goll sleeps the sleep that knows no dawn In the cave where he made his stand, Defending honor to the last With his dying hand.

Diarmuid lies on Ben Bulben’s slope, Where the wild boar brought him low, And Caílte runs no more the hills Where the heather used to grow.

One by one they fell away, Those heroes brave and true, Until only I remained alive To remember what they knew.

And I, fool that I was, I left them all For love of a fairy maid, Thinking to return in a little while When my heart’s debt was paid.

But time in the Land of Youth stands still, While here it rushes by, And when I returned to mortal earth I found my friends all die.

The halls are empty, the horns are still, The hounds no longer bay, And all the glory of the Fianna Has withered away.”

The monks wept to hear such sorrow, but Oisín was not finished. His voice rose again, fierce with defiance:

“Yet I would not trade a single day Of those times for all your gold, Nor would I change the life I lived For all the prayers you’ve told.

You speak of sin and punishment, Of hellfire and despair, But we who lived by honor’s code Had nothing there to fear.

We gave our strength to the helpless, Our swords to the just cause, We lived by courage and loyalty, Not by written laws.

And if your God would damn us all For living proud and free, Then let Him keep His narrow heaven - The earth was good for me!

The earth with its forests and rivers, Its mountains and valleys wide, Where men could prove their worth in deed With no need to hide.

Give me one day of the old time, One hour of the past, One glimpse of my father riding forth With his war-cry ringing fast,

One sight of Oscar in his strength, One word from Caílte’s tongue, One moment of that golden age When the world was young!”

But even as he spoke these defiant words, Oisín’s voice softened with acceptance. The old warrior understood that his time had passed, that the age of heroes was over and a new age had begun:

“Yet I know that time moves onward, That the wheel turns round and round, That what is built must crumble down Back to the earth and ground.

The Fianna had their season, Their day beneath the sun, And when that day was ended, Their work was done.

Perhaps your God is kinder Than your priests declare, Perhaps He loves a brave man’s heart Though he fought beneath the bare

Sky of the ancient world Before your bells did ring, Perhaps there’s room in heaven For a warrior king.

But be that as it may, I’ll remember till I die The days when we rode proudly forth Beneath the Irish sky.

And when my time comes at last To join my friends in rest, I’ll tell them how I sang their praise And did my best

To keep their memory green In this cold and narrow day, Though all the world has changed Since they passed away.”

As Oisín’s voice faded, the monks sat in stunned silence. They had heard something beyond their experience - the authentic voice of a vanished world, the testimony of an eyewitness to an age of legend. Some were moved to tears, others to wonder, but all were changed by what they had heard.

In the days that followed, they wrote down Oisín’s songs and stories, preserving for future generations the memory of the Fianna and their heroic deeds. They learned that courage takes many forms, that honor is not confined to any single faith, and that the human spirit can triumph over time and change.

And Oisín, having delivered his testimony and sung his lament, found a kind of peace at last. He had done what he could to preserve the memory of his fallen comrades. Their names would not be forgotten, their deeds would not be lost, and their example would inspire generations yet unborn.

When his time came to die, they said he died with a smile upon his lips, as if he heard in the distance the sound of hunting horns and the voices of old friends calling him home to join them in whatever realm the brave and true inherit when their earthly battles are done.

Thus ended the last of the Fianna, the final witness to Ireland’s age of heroes. But his songs live on, carrying across the centuries the echo of a time when giants walked the earth and honor was more precious than gold, when courage was common and heroes were real, and when the hills of Ireland rang with the voices of the brave.