Poems MacCarthy, Florence Denis

65
No, the great prize shall not by thee be won,--
A fatal lure, a false, false light is she,
To numbers promised and yet given to none,
And wounding many as she now wounds thee.
Break not thy vow, never with me to fight,
Break not the bond that once thy young heart gave,
Break not the truth we both so loved to plight,
Come not to me, O champion bold and brave!
To fifty champions by her smiles made slaves
The maid was proffered, and not slight the gift;
By me they have been sent into their graves,
From me they met destruction sure and swift.
Though vauntingly Ferbaeth my arms defied,
He of a house of heroes prince and peer,
Short was the time until I tamed his pride
With one swift cast of my true battle-spear.
Srub Daire's valour too had swift decline:
Hundreds of women's secrets he possessed,
Great at one time was his renown as thine,
In cloth of gold, not silver, was he dressed.
Though 'twas to me the woman was betrothed
On whom the chiefs of the fair province smile,
To shed thy blood my spirit would have loathed
East, west, or north, or south of all the isle.
"Good, O Ferdiah," still continuing, spoke
Cuchullin, "thus it is that thou shouldst not
Have come with me to combat and to fight;
For when we were with Scatha, long ago,
With Uatha and with Aife, we were wont
To go together to each battle-field,
To every combat and to every fight,
Through every forest, every wilderness,
Through every darksome path and dangerous way."
And thus he said and thus he spake these words: