Sir Donald Cathchern
fallen in Fall Crown Tourney, A.S. XXVIII
(Celtic buried rhyme)
Whose grave is this but newly marked,
Estrewn with bark and blown leaves?
Midst columbine and campion
What champion, and who grieves?
A fellow warrior and a Celt,
A lady knelt on cold earth,
And driving blade into the silt
Up to the hilt, claimed his berth.
"Rest well, good knight, Donald Cathchern.
In battle stern, in heart bold.
You made the very woods to sing;
With clash and ring, the steel tolled."
She rises with the fall of night
And sets to flight small beasts near,
Who'll make their bedding in the loam
He calls home, whom she called dear.
"Slumber away, my great black bear."
She turns with care, head dipped low.
And wond'rous sight: the moon casts down
On grave mound...a wolf's shadow.
-- Mistress Philippa Llewelyn Schuyler