‘It is true, O fosterling,’ said he; ’which of my friends from the sid is that who comes to have pity on me, because they know the sore distress in which I am, alone against the four great provinces of Ireland, on the Cattle-Foray of Cualnge at this time?’

That was true for Cuchulainn.  When the warrior had reached the place where Cuchulainn was, he spoke to him, and had pity on him for it.

‘This is manly, O Cuchulainn,’ said he.

‘It is not much at all,’ said Cuchulainn.

‘I will help you,’ said the man.

‘Who are you at all?’ said Cuchulainn.

‘It is I, your father from the sid, Lug Mac Ethlend.’

‘My wounds are heavy, it were high time that I should be healed.’

‘Sleep a little, O Cuchulainn,’ said the warrior; ’your heavy swoon (?) [Note:  Conjectural—­MS. tromthortim.] of sleep at the mound of Lerga till the end of three days and three nights, and I will fight against the hosts for that space.’

Then he sings the ferdord to him, and he sleeps from it.  Lug looked at each wound that it was clean.  Then Lug said: 

’Arise, O great son of the Ulstermen, whole of thy wounds. ...  Go into thy chariot secure.  Arise, arise!’ [Note:  Rhetoric.]

For three days and three nights Cuchulainn was asleep.  It were right indeed though his sleep equalled his weariness.  From the Monday after the end of summer exactly to the Wednesday after Candlemas, for this space Cuchulainn had not slept, except when he slept a little while against his spear after midday, with his head on his clenched fist, and his clenched fist on his spear, and his spear on his knee; but he was striking and cutting and attacking and slaying the four great provinces of Ireland for that space.

It is then that the warrior of the sid cast herbs and grasses of curing and charms of healing into the hurts and wounds and into the injuries and into the many wounds of Cuchulainn, so that Cuchulainn recovered in his sleep without his perceiving it at all.

Now it was at this time that the boys came south from Emain Macha:  Folloman Mac Conchobair with three fifties of kings’ sons of Ulster, and they gave battle thrice to the hosts, so that three times their own number fell, and all the boys fell except Folloman Mac Conchobair.  Folloman boasted that he would not go back to Emain for ever and ever, until he should take the head of Ailill with him, with the golden crown that was above it.  This was not easy to him; for the two sons of Bethe Mac Bain, the two sons of Ailill’s foster-mother and foster-father, came on him, and wounded him so that he fell by them.  So that that is the death of the boys of Ulster and of Folloman Mac Conchobair.

Cuchulainn for his part was in his deep sleep till the end of three days and three nights at the mound in Lerga.  Cuchulainn arose then from his sleep, and put his hand over his face, and made a purple wheelbeam from head to foot, and his mind was strong in him, and he would have gone to an assembly, or a march, or a tryst, or a beer-house, or to one of the chief assemblies of Ireland.