pookah

"It is a grief to me, after toil,
Suffering death's agony in affliction,
And a second heeavy grief to me
To have seen our men fall headlong.
And long sighing and lamentation
After the fiery men of our land,
Rhufon and Gwgon, Gwion and Gwlged,
Bravest in their stations, mighty in conflict,
May their souls after battle be welcomed
In the land of plenty."

This is from a Welsh poem about 300 Celtic warriors trying to protect their homes from an invading army of Angles around 600AD. 300 against 100,000. One night, after some heavy drinking, the Celts rushed the bad guys and were wiped out. But not after taking all but 1,000 of the invaders.

And I learned how to say it in Irish!

And then there's Yeats.... Oh, man....

"An Irish Airman foresees his Death"


I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartans poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public man, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.