I spoke to the fairy-man,
  If it was in him to do a right thing,
  To get me my little mare,
  Or I would be changing my wits.

  ’Do you hear Rucard Mor? 
  It is not here is your mare,
  She is in Cnoc Bally Brishlawn
  With the horseman of the music these three months.’

  I ran off on my walking,
  I followed the road straightly,
  I was in Cnoc Bally Brishlawn
  With the black fall of the night.

  That is a place was a crowd
  As it was seen by me,
  All the weavers of the globe,
  It is there you would have news of them.

  I spoke to the horseman,
  If it was in him to do the right thing,
  To get me my little mare,
  Or I would be changing my wits.

  ’Do you hear, Rucard Mor? 
  It is not here is your mare,
  She is in Cnoc Cruachan,
  In the back end of the palace.’

  I ran off on my walking,
  I followed the road straightly,
  I made no rest or stop
  Till I was in face of the palace.

  That is the place was a crowd
  As it appeared to me,
  The men and women of the country,
  And they all making merry.

  Arthur Scoil (?) stood up
  And began himself giving the lead,
  It is joyful, light and active,
  I would have danced the course with them.

  They drew up on their feet
  And they began to laugh,—­
  ’Look at Rucard Mor,
  And he looking for his little mare.’

  I spoke to the man,
  And he ugly and humpy,
  Unless he would get me my mare
  I would break a third of his bones.

  ’Do you hear, Rucard Mor? 
  It is not here is your mare,
  She is in Alvin of Leinster,
  On a halter with my mother.’

  I ran off on my walking,
  And I came to Alvin of Leinster. 
  I met the old woman—­
  On my word she was not pleasing.

  I spoke to the old woman,
  And she broke out in English: 
  ’Get agone, you rascal,
  I don’t like your notions.’

  ’Do you hear, you old woman? 
  Keep away from me with your English,
  But speak to me with the tongue
  I hear from every person.’

  ’It is from me you will get word of her,
  Only you come too late—­
  I made a hunting cap
  For Conal Cath of her yesterday.’

  I ran off on my walking,
  Through roads that were cold and dirty. 
  I fell in with the fairy-man,
  And he lying down in the Ruadthe.

  ’I pity a man without a cow,
  I pity a man without a sheep,
  But in the case of a man without a horse
  It is hard for him to be long in the world.’