Poems MacCarthy, Florence Denis

80
For all the men of Erin hither come.
It is no single combat they will give,
Since fair Ferdiah, Daman's son, the son
Of Dare, by thy hands has here been slain."
"O servant, what availeth me to rise,"
Cuchullin said, "since he hath fallen by me?"
And so the servant said, and so replied
Cuchullin, in his turn, unto the end;
LAEGH.
Arise, Emania's slaughter-hound, arise,
Exultant pride should be thy mood this day:--
Ferdiah of the hosts before thee lies--
Hard was the fight and dreadful was the fray.
CUCHULLIN.
Ah, what availeth me a hero's pride?
Madness and grief are in my heart and brain,
For the dear blood with which my hand is dyed--
For the dear body that I here have slain.
LAEGH.
It suits thee ill to shed these idle tears,
Fitter by far for thee a fiercer mood--
At thee he flung the flying pointed spears,
Malicious, wounding, dripping, dyed with blood.
CUCHULLIN.
Even though he left me crippled, maimed, and lame,
Even though I lost this arm that now but bleeds,
All would I bear, but now the fields of fame
No more shall see Ferdiah mount his steeds.
LAEGH.
More pleasing is the victory thou hast gained,
More pleasing to the women of Creeve Rue,