“Alas!  Ferdiah, an unhappy chance
It was for thee that thou didst not consult
Some of the heroes who my prowess knew,
Before thou camest forth to meet me here,
In the hard battle combat by the Ford. 
Unhappy was it that it was not Laegh,
The son of Riangabra, thou didst ask
About our fellow-pupilship—­a bond
That might the unnatural combat so have stayed;
Unhappy was it that thou didst not ask
Honest advice from Fergus, son of Roy;
Or that it was not battle-winning, proud,
Exulting, ruddy Connall thou didst ask
About our fellow-pupilship of old. 
For well do these men know there will not be
A being born among the Conacians who
Shall do the deeds of valour thou hast done
From this day forth until the end of time. 
For if thou hadst consulted these brave men
About the places where the assemblies meet,
About the plightings and the broken vows
Uttered too oft by Connaught’s fair-haired dames;
If thou hadst asked about the games and sports
Played with the targe and shield, the sword and spear,
If of backgammon or the moves of chess,
Or races with the chariots and the steeds,
They never would have found a champion’s arm
As strong to pierce a hero’s flesh as thine,
O rose-cloud hued Ferdiah!  None to raise
The red-mouthed vulture’s hoarse, inviting croak
Unto the many-coloured flocks, nor one
Who will for Croghan combat like to thee,
O red-cheeked son of Daman!” Thus he said,
Then standing o’er Ferdiah he resumed: 
“Oh! great has been the treachery and fraud
The men of Erin practised upon thee,
Ferdiah, thus to bring thee here to fight
With me, ’gainst whom it is no easy task
Upon the Tain Bo Cuailgne to contend.” 
And thus he said, and thus again he spake: 

Cuchullin.

O my Ferdiah, O my friend, forgive: 
  ’Tis not my hand but treachery lays thee low:—­
Thou doomed to die and I condemned to live,
  Both doomed for ever to be severed so!

When we were far away in our young prime,
  With Scatha, dread Buannan’s chosen friend,
A vow we made, that till the end of time,
  With hostile arms we never should contend.

Dear was thy lovely ruddiness to me,
  Dear was thy gray-blue eye, so bright and clear,—­
Thy comely, perfect form how sweet to see! 
  Thy wisdom and thy eloquence how dear!

In body-cutting combat, on the field
  Of spears, when all is lost or all is won,
None braver ever yet held up a shield,
  Than thou, Ferdiah, Daman’s ruddy son.

Never since Aife’s only son I slew,
  Not knowing who the gallant youth might be,—­
Ah! hapless deed, that still my heart doth rue!—­
  None have I found, Ferdiah, like to thee.

Thy dream it was to win fair Finavair,
  From Mave her beauteous daughter’s hand to gain;
As soon might’st thou in the wide fields of air
  The glancing sunbeam’s swift-winged flight restrain.