Ferdiah.

What has brought thee here, O Hound,
  To encounter a strong foe? 
O’er the trappings of thy steeds
  Crimson-red thy blood shall flow. 
Woe is in thy journey, woe;
  Let the cunning leech prepare;
Shouldst thou ever reach thy home,
  Thou shalt need his care.

Cuchullin.

I, who here with warriors fought,
  With the lordly chiefs of hosts,
With a hundred men at once,
  Little heed thy empty boasts. 
Thee beneath the wave to place,
  Thee to strike and thee to slay
In the first path of our fight
  Am I here to-day.

Ferdiah.

Thy reproach in me behold,
  For ’tis I that deed will do,
’Tis of me that Fame shall tell
  He the Ultonian’s champion slew. 
Yes, in spite of all their hosts,
  Yes, in spite of all their prayers: 
So it shall long be told
  That the loss was theirs.

Cuchullin.

How, then, shall we first engage—­
  Is it with the hard-edged sword? 
In what order shall we go
  To the battle of the Ford? 
Shall we in our chariots ride? 
  Shall we wield the bloody spear? 
How am I to hew thee down
  With thy proud hosts here?

Ferdiah.

Ere the setting of the sun,
  Ere shall come the darksome night,
If again thou must be told,
  With a mountain thou shalt fight: 
Thee the Ultonians will extol,
  Thence impetuous wilt thou grow,
Oh! their grief, when through their ranks
  Will thy spectre go!

Cuchullin.

Thou hast fallen in danger’s gap,
  Yes, thy end of life is nigh;
Sharp spears shall be plied on thee
  Fairly ’neath the open sky: 
Pompous thou wilt be and vain
  Till the time for talk is o’er,
From this day a battle-chief
  Thou shalt be no more.

Ferdiah.

Cease thy boastings, for the world
  Sure no braggart hath like thee: 
Thou art not the chosen chief—­
  Thou hast not the champion’s fee:—­
Without action, without force,
  Thou art but a giggling page;
Yes, thou trembler, with thy heart
  Like a bird’s in cage.

Cuchullin.

When we were with Scatha once,
  It but seemed our valour’s due
That we should together fight,
  Both as one our sports pursue. 
Thou wert then my dearest friend,
  Comrade, kinsman, thou wert all,—­
Ah, how sad, if by my hand
  Thou at last should fall.

Ferdiah.

Much of honour shalt thou lose,
  We may then mere words forego:—­
On a stake thy head shall be
  Ere the early cock shall crow. 
O Cuchullin, Cuailgne’s pride,
  Grief and madness round thee twine;
I will do thee every ill,
  For the fault is thine.