For Life With Dishonor

By William P. Robertson

Evil Maeve whispered to Celatin's brood.
Vile, mis-shapen, they'd learned to be rude.
In Babylon, Alba, the magical arts
Were taught them by wizards with pitiless hearts.

They brewed an invasion from loose autumn leaves,
Feigned clash of battle, blew smoke out their sleeves.
They even had Vulcan forge three deadly spears
To kill brave Cuchulain and his charioteer.

The brood began scouting throughout Ulster land.
From high on the wind they checked valley and strand.
When they saw that the hero lounged safe in a glen,
Their shape-shifting sister descended to him.

She came in the guise of his best crony's spouse.
She said that some rabble were burning his house.
She said Men of Erin were stealing his herds.
He rose seized by madness and her slippery words.

When he cast aside warnings from Emir, his wife,
His steed bolted snorting for fear of its life.
When Gray of Macha was finally brought home,
It wept tears of blood to forewarn hero's doom.

But noble Cuchulain would not be convinced
By Cathbed, the Druid, or armor that pinched.
Along with his driver, he flew for the sky
In chariot creaking a solemn good-bye.

As he dove into battle, a washer at the ford
Held up a corslet from which the blood poured.
But still he plunged onward although he was beat,
For life with dishonor is worse than defeat!

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