And then the horses were caught for Aoife, and the chariot yoked for her, and she went on to the palace of Bodb Dearg, and there was a welcome before her from the chief people of the place.  And the son of the Dagda asked her why she did not bring the children of Lir with her.  “I will tell you that,” she said.  “It is because Lir has no liking for you, and he will not trust you with his children, for fear you might keep them from him altogether.”

“I wonder at that,” said Bodb Dearg, “for those children are dearer to me than my own children.”  And he thought in his own mind it was deceit the woman was doing on him, and it is what he did, he sent messengers to the north to Sidhe Fionnachaidh.  And Lir asked them what did they come for.  “On the head of your children,” said they.  “Are they not gone to you along with Aoife?” he said.  “They are not,” said they; “and Aoife said it was yourself would not let them come.”

It is downhearted and sorrowful Lir was at that news, for he understood well it was Aoife had destroyed or made an end of his children.  And early in the morning of the morrow his horses were caught, and he set out on the road to the south-west.  And when he was as far as the shore of Loch Dairbhreach, the four children saw the horses coming towards them, and it is what Fionnuala said:  “A welcome to the troop of horses I see coming near to the lake; the people they are bringing are strong, there is sadness on them; it is us they are following, it is for us they are looking; let us move over to the shore, Aodh, Fiachra, and comely Conn.  Those that are coming can be no others in the world but only Lir and his household.”

Then Lir came to the edge of the lake, and he took notice of the swans having the voice of living people, and he asked them why was it they had that voice.

“I will tell you that, Lir,” said Fionnuala.  “We are your own four children, that are after being destroyed by your wife, and by the sister of our own mother, through the dint of her jealousy.”  “Is there any way to put you into your own shapes again?” said Lir.  “There is no way,” said Fionnuala, “for all the men of the world could not help us till we have gone through our time, and that will not be,” she said, “till the end of nine hundred years.”

When Lir and his people heard that, they gave out three great heavy shouts of grief and sorrow and crying.

“Is there a mind with you,” said Lir, “to come to us on the land, since you have your own sense and your memory yet?” “We have not the power,” said Fionnuala, “to live with any person at all from this time; but we have our own language, the Irish, and we have the power to sing sweet music, and it is enough to satisfy the whole race of men to be listening to that music.  And let you stop here to-night,” she said, “and we will be making music for you.”

So Lir and his people stopped there listening to the music of the swans, and they slept there quietly that night.  And Lir rose up early on the morning of the morrow and he made this complaint:—­