"Alas for the one who has grief as a companion as my plight
shows, my dejected state is enough to show the genuineness of my grief. I did not realize how spoilt I was by the son of Thomas with locks that curled like horns, until clay was thrown on that nobleman I lacked for nothing. The thought of Margaret's son revives my grief, since the news of his death was spread I have not a day's respite from weeping, continually bemoaning the noble man. O bed-fellow of your poet, steadfast scion of Geoffrey Rothe, musicians row keen you, star of knowledge of Gael and Gall. Your officers on going from Holy cross were filled with sadness at leaving you behind, as for me now that James is dead my sadness will endure for ever. Until he died the brave son of Thomas never crossed me, I did not at first realize the extent of my hurt in the death of a beloved patron, the elite of the Gall. For his poet it means ruin after all the favors he received, as always welcomed me whilst rejecting others. It is hard for me to cease grieving for him, woe to the one to whom grief of mind clings, my heard is not a physician that could help me to compose an elegy for the hero of Bregia. Until James' sail was lowered, both neighboring peoples, descendants of Gall and of Grecian Gael, looked to the curly-haired lord. Should anyone wish to praise him since he is dead they would say that the French of whose race he was were not anxious to seek quarrel with him. As long as he lives huge was the reckoning of what he bestowed on the poets of Ireland ever eager to fill our ears with the fame of that gallant Frenchman. To the son of Thomas I will say: seed does not sprout in barren soil so it is not surprising that because of your death the ground beneath the woods, however large, are bare of fruit. Your hope for the nobles of Ireland, o valiant descendant of Geoffrey, was that you would unite Gael and Gall, but your hope vanished suddenly. Your death as an outstanding noble of Ireland by taking you from us, o curly-haired lord, means that we poets who counted on the respect of your rule will now have to bend the knee. The poets of Ireland are so distressed and my own heart is utterly wounded, o ruly-hued wavy-haired lord, that because of your death Loughmoe will go to another king. I find it hard to remain among your officers weeping for my king, Purcells are your Norman officers, a pool of sadness well up in me. The noble rivers in the land of Ireland, prone clients about the hero of the Erne, rose up in angry spate above the woods after the death of their valiant earl. Know that Loughmoe is full of sadness and Killahara after the king, all wish to weep for the soldier and none thinks of stopping. A strange thing occurred in the household of the baron at the height of our mourning for the lion of fierce valor: the fire went dark. After the death of James Spring weather comes into Summer, bitter its blast, the withered shoots on the branches are signs of the unreasonable weather. Since the son of Thomas, graceful of form, died, there is no mast in Killahara, it was not hot weather that h armed the gleaming herds. Harsh weather towards Autumn with heavy rain from day to day, the death of the king was the convulsion that caused the perverse weather that blighted the nuts. As long as baron Thomas' son lived because of the presents he gave us few felt the need to compete for rewards from the generous, noble, powerful Frenchman. I am now about to make known an unfamiliar tale that has not been told before about the valiant knights of the Round Table, the history of the fellowship is its subject. It was taboo for King Arthur to go to feast in his mysterious white castle, even though it was a time for feasting, without meeting a fresh wonder on his way as a favor for it. King Arthur to whom all give allegiance sees a flagstone afloat on the stream of the city and follows the marvel on his way to feast, a token as required for his shining castle. The stone has a sword in its very center, soft the spot, a stone moving without being pushed, the king was full of wonder at it. As Sir Galahad of the burnished weapons, a brave knight intrepid in battle, won the palm when he first appeared he also won success at the end of his life. What harm would it be for the faithful followers of James if they died after him when it was fitting that after the death of the knight a hundred of his fellows died of grief for him. True is this tale that was told to me about the career of the brilliant knight, a shoot of the blood of kings descended from Remus, James was also a fruit of that seed. Equal in intensity was the grief I suffered as his poet and his confidant after the death of James, a grievous event, such stunning sorrow never struct me before.