Glen Da Ruadh!

Hail to him who hath it as an heritage!

Sweet is the cuckoo's voice on bending branch On the peak above Glen Da Ruadh.

Beloved is Draighen over a firm beach!

Beloved its water in pure sand!

I would never have left it, from the east, Had I not come with my beloved.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 10: _i.e._ Scotland.]

[Footnote 11: _i.e._ to Ireland.]

DEIRDRE'S LAMENT

And Deirdre dishevelled her hair and began kissing Noisi and drinking his blood, and the colour of embers came into her cheeks, and she uttered this lay.

Long is the day without Usnagh's Children; It was never mournful to be in their company.

A king's sons, by whom exiles were rewarded, Three lions from the Hill of the Cave.

Three dragons of Dun Monidh, The three champions from the Red Branch: After them I shall not live-- Three that used to break every onrush.

Three darlings of the women of Britain, Three hawks of Slieve Gullion, Sons of a king whom valour served, To whom soldiers would pay homage.

Three heroes who were not good at homage, Their fall is cause of sorrow-- Three sons of Cathba's daughter, Three props of the battle-host of Coolney.

Three vigorous bears, Three lions out of Liss Una, Three lions who loved their praise, Three pet sons of Ulster.

That I should remain after Noisi Let no one in the world suppose!

After Ardan and Ainnle My time would not be long.

Ulster's high-king, my first husband, I forsook for Noisi's love: Short my life after them, I will perform their funeral game.

After them I will not be alive-- Three that would go into every conflict, Three who liked to endure hardships, Three heroes who never refused combat.

O man that diggest the tomb, And that puttest my darling from me, Make not the grave too narrow, I shall be beside the n.o.ble ones.

THE HOSTS OF FAERY

White shields they carry in their hands, With emblems of pale silver; With glittering blue swords, With mighty stout horns.

In well-devised battle array, Ahead of their fair chieftain They march amid blue spears, Pale-visaged, curly-headed bands.

They scatter the battalions of the foe, They ravage every land they attack, Splendidly they march to combat, A swift, distinguished, avenging host!

No wonder though their strength be great: Sons of queens and kings are one and all; On their heads are Beautiful golden-yellow manes.

With smooth comely bodies, With bright blue-starred eyes, With pure crystal teeth, With thin red lips.

Good they are at man-slaying, Melodious in the ale-house, Masterly at making songs, Skilled at playing _fidch.e.l.l_.[12]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 12: A game like draughts or chess.]

FROM THE VISION OF MAC CONGLINNE

A vision that appeared to me, An apparition wonderful I tell to all: There was a coracle all of lard Within a port of New-milk Lake Upon the world's smooth sea.

We went into that man-of-war, 'Twas warrior-like to take the road O'er ocean's heaving waves.

Our oar-strokes then we pulled Across the level of the main, Throwing the sea's harvest up Like honey, the sea-soil.

The fort we reached was beautiful, With works of custards thick, Beyond the lake.

Fresh b.u.t.ter was the bridge in front, The rubble d.y.k.e was fair white wheat, Bacon the palisade.

Stately, pleasantly it sat, A compact house and strong.

Then I went in: The door of it was hung beef, The threshold was dry bread, Cheese-curds the walls.

Smooth pillars of old cheese And sappy bacon props Alternate ranged; Stately beams of mellow cream, White posts of real curds Kept up the house.

Behind it was a well of wine, Beer and bragget in streams, Each full pool to the taste.

Malt in smooth wavy sea Over a lard-spring's brink Flowed through the floor.

A lake of juicy pottage Under a cream of oozy lard Lay 'twixt it and the sea.

Hedges of b.u.t.ter fenced it round, Under a crest of white-mantled lard Around the wall outside.

A row of fragrant apple-trees, An orchard in its pink-tipped bloom, Between it and the hill.

A forest tall of real leeks, Of onions and of carrots, stood Behind the house.

Within, a household generous, A welcome of red, firm-fed men, Around the fire: Seven bead-strings and necklets seven Of cheeses and of bits of tripe Round each man's neck.

The Chief in cloak of beefy fat Beside his n.o.ble wife and fair I then beheld.

Below the lofty caldron's spit Then the Dispenser I beheld, His fleshfork on his back.