[W.2329.] “Bring this word to Conchobar dear, I am weak, with wounded sides. Greatly has he changed in mien, Dechtire’s fond, rich-trooped son!
“I alone these cattle
guard,
Leave them not, yet hold them
not.
Ill my plight, no hope for
me,
Thus alone on many fords!
“Showers of blood rain
on my arms,
Full of hateful wounds am
I.
No friend comes to help me
here,
Save my charioteer alone!
“Few make music here
for me,
Joy I’ve none in single
horn.
When the mingled trumpets
sound,[a]
This is sweetest from the
drone!
“This old saying, ages
old:—
‘Single log gives forth
no flame;’
Let there be a two or three,
Up the firebrands all will
blaze!
“One sole log burns
not so well
As when one burns by its side.
Guile can be employed on one;
Single mill-stone doth not
grind!
“Hast not heard at every
time,
’One is duped’?—’tis
true of me.
That is why I cannot last
These long battles of the
hosts!
“However small a host
may be,
It receives some thought and
pains;
Take but this: its daily
meat
On one fork is never cooked!
“Thus alone I’ve
faced the host,
By the ford in broad Cantire;
Many came, both Loch and Badb,
As foretold in ’Regomain!’[b]
“Loch has mangled my
two thighs;
Me the grey-red wolf hath
bit;
Loch my sides[c] has wounded
sore,
And the eel has dragged me
down!
“With my spear I kept her off; I put out the she-wolf’s eye; [W.2371.] And I broke her lower leg, At the outset of the strife!
“Then when Laeg sent
Aife’s spear,[a]
Down the stream—like
swarm of bees—
That sharp deadly spear I
hurled,
Loch, [1]Mobebuis’[1]
son, fell there!
“Will not Ulster battle
give
To Ailill and Eocho’s
lass,[b]
While I linger here in pain,
Full of wounds and bathed
in blood?
[LL.fo.75b.] “Tell the splendid Ulster chiefs They shall come to guard their drove. Maga’s sons[c] have seized their kine And have portioned them all out!
“Fight on fight—though
much I vowed,
I have kept my word in all.
For pure honour’s sake
I fight;
’Tis too much to fight
alone!
“Vultures joyful at
the breach
In Ailill’s and in Medb’s
camp.
Mournful cries of woe are
heard;
On Murthemne’s plain
is grief!
“Conchobar comes not
out with help;
In the fight, no troops of
his.
Should one leave him
thus alone,
Hard ’twould be his
rage to tell!
[1]"Men have almost worn me out In these single-handed fights; Warrior’s deeds I cannot do, Now that I must fight alone!"[1]
[a] Literally ‘repentance.’