At the edge-feat of swords they were engaged
When this surprise occurred, and it was then
Ferdiah an unguarded moment found
Upon Cuchullin, and he struck him deep,
Plunging his straight-edged sword up to the hilt
Within his body, till his girdle filled
With blood, and all the Ford ran red with gore
From the brave battle-warrior’s veins outshed. 
This could Cuchullin now no longer bear
Because Ferdiah still the unguarded spot
Struck and re-struck with quick, strong, stubborn strokes;
And so he called aloud to Laegh, the son
Of Riangabra, for the dread Gaebulg. 
The manner of that fearful feat was this: 
Adown the current was it sent, and caught
Between the toes:  a single spear would make
The wound it made when entering, but once lodged
Within the body, thirty barbs outsprung,
So that it could not be withdrawn until
The body was cut open where it lay. 
And when of the Gaebulg Ferdiah heard
The name, he made a downward stroke of his shield,
To guard his body.  Then Cuchullin thrust
The unerring thorny spear straight o’er the rim,
And through the breast-plate of his coat of mail,
So that its farther half was seen beyond
His body, after passing through his heart.

Ferdiah gave an upward stroke of his shield,
His breast to cover, though it was “the relief
After the danger.”  Then the servant set
The dread Gaebulg adown the flowing stream;
Cuchullin caught it firmly ’twixt his toes,
And from his foot a fearful cast he threw
Upon Ferdiah with unerring aim. 
Swift through the well-wrought iron apron guard
It passed, and through the stone which was as large
As a huge mill-stone, cracking it in three,
And so into his body, every part
Of which was filled with the expanding barbs
“That is enough:  by that one blow I fall,”
Ferdiah said.  “Indeed, I now may own
That I am sickly after thee this day,
Though it behoved not thee that I should fall
By stroke of thine;” and then these dying words
He added, tottering back upon the bank: 

Ferdiah.

O Hound, so famed for deeds of valour doing,
  ’Twas not thy place my death to give to me;
Thine is the fault of my most certain ruin,
  And yet ’tis best to have my blood on thee.

The wretch escapes not from his false position,
  Who to the gap of his destruction goes;
Alas! my death-sick voice needs no physician,
  My end hath come—­my life’s stream seaward flows.

The natural ramparts of my breast are broken,
  In its own gore my struggling heart is drowned:—­
Alas!  I have not fought as I have spoken,
  For thou hast killed me in the fight, O Hound!