No, no, it's not.

Nothing but men can make towns great, and he, The one over-topping man that's in the world, Keeps far away.

DAIRE.

He will not hear you, King, And we old men had best keep company With one another. I'll fill the horn for you.

CONCOBAR.

I will not drink, old fool. You have drunk a horn At every door we came to.

DAIRE.

You'd better drink, For old men light upon their youth again In the brown ale. When I have drunk enough, I am like Cuchullain as one pea another, And live like a bird's flight from tree to tree.

CONCOBAR.

We'll to our chairs for we have much to talk of, And we have Ullad and Muirthemne, and here Is Conall Muirthemne in the nick of time.

(He goes to the back of stage to welcome a company of Kings who come in through the great door. The other Kings gradually get into their places. Cuchullain sits in his great chair with certain of the young men standing around him. Others of the young men, however, remain with Daire at the ale vat. Daire holds out the horn of ale to one or two of the older Kings as they pa.s.s him going to their places. They pa.s.s him by, most of them silently refusing.)

DAIRE.

Will you not drink?

AN OLD KING.

Not till the council's over.

A YOUNG KING.

But I'll drink, Daire.

ANOTHER YOUNG KING.

Fill me a horn too, Daire.

ANOTHER YOUNG KING.

If I'd drunk half that you have drunk to-day, I'd be upon all fours.

DAIRE.

That would be natural When Mother Earth had given you this good milk From her great b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

CUCHULLAIN.

(To one of the young Kings beside him)

One is content awhile With a soft warm woman who folds up our lives In silky network. Then, one knows not why, But one's away after a flinty heart.

THE YOUNG KING.

How long can the net keep us?

CUCHULLAIN.

All our lives If there are children, and a dozen moons If there are none, because a growing child Has so much need of watching it can make A pa.s.sion that's as changeable as the sea Change till it holds the wide earth to its heart.

At least I have heard a father say it, but I Being childless do not know it. Come nearer yet; Though he is ringing that old silver rod We'll have our own talk out. They cannot hear us.

(Concobar who is now seated in his great chair, opposite Cuchullain, beats upon the pillar of the house that is nearest to him with a rod of silver, till the Kings have become silent. Cuchullain alone continues to talk in a low voice to those about him, but not so loud as to disturb the silence. Concobar rises and speaks standing.)

CONCOBAR.

I have called you hither, Kings of Ullad, and Kings Of Muirthemne and Connall Muirthemne, And tributary Kings, for now there is peace-- It's time to build up Emain that was burned At the outsetting of these wars; for we, Being the foremost men, should have high chairs And be much stared at and wondered at, and speak Out of more laughing overflowing hearts Than common men. It is the art of kings To make what's n.o.ble n.o.bler in men's eyes By wide uplifted roofs, where beaten gold, That's ruddy with desire, marries pale silver Among the shadowing beams; and many a time I would have called you hither to this work, But always, when I'd all but summoned you, Some war or some rebellion would break out.

DAIRE.

Where's Maine Morgor and old Usnach's children, And that high-headed even-walking Queen, And many near as great that got their death Because you hated peace. I can remember The people crying out when Deirdre pa.s.sed And Maine Morgor had a cold grey eye.

Well, well, I'll throw this heel-tap on the ground, For it may be they are thirsty.

A KING.

Be silent, fool.

ANOTHER KING.

Be silent, Daire.

CONCOBAR.

Let him speak his mind.

I have no need to be afraid of ghosts, For I have made but necessary wars.

I warred to strengthen Emain, or because When wars are out they marry and beget And have their generations like mankind And there's no help for it; but I'm well content That they have ended and left the town so great, That its mere name shall be in times to come Like a great ale vat where the men of the world Shall drink no common ale but the hard will, The unquenchable hope, the friendliness of the sword.

(He takes thin boards on which plans have been carved by those about him.)

Give me the building plans, and have you written That we--Cuchullain is looking in his shield; It may be the pale riders of the wind Throw pictures on it, or that Mananan, His father's friend and sometime fosterer, Foreknower of all things, has cast a vision, Out of the cold dark of the rich sea, Foretelling Emain's greatness.

CUCHULLAIN.

No, great King, I looked on this out of mere idleness, Imagining a woman that I loved.

(The sound of a trumpet without.)

CONCOBAR.

Open the door, for that is a herald's trumpet.

(The great door at the back is flung open; a young man who is fully armed and carries a shield with a woman's head painted on it, stands upon the threshold. Behind him are trumpeters. He walks into the centre of the hall, the trumpeting ceases.)