Then that servant of Ferdia arose, and he placed his hand upon his lord:  “Arise now, O Ferdia!” said the servant, “for here they come towards thee, even to the Ford;” and this was the speech of the driver of the chariot of Ferdia as he stood before him: 

Lo! a chariot yoked with silver, creaking loud, draws nigh;[FN#53]
O’er the chariot-wheels a man his perfect form rears high: 
The warlike car
Rolls on from far
Braeg Ross, from Braina’s bounds;
Past that burg they ride whose wooded side the roadway rounds;
For its triumphs high in triumph cry its song resounds.

[FN#53] For a literal translation of the above poem and another rendering, see the notes.

Urged by hero-Hound, and yoked by charioteer’s hand true,
Flies the war-car southward ever; nobler hawk ne’er flew
Than he who speeds
His rushing steeds,
That chief of stubborn might;
Soon the blood to flow from slaughtered foe shall meet his sight;
Sure for us ’tis ill, for soon with skill he gives us fight.

Woe to him who here on hillock stands, that Hound to wait;
Emain Macha’s perfect Hound is he, foretold by fate: 
Last year I cried
That him I spied
Who guards his land from foe: 
That battle-Hound, on whom are found all hues to glow: 
’Twas then from far I heard that car:  its sound I know.

“O my servant!” said Ferdia, “wherefore is it:  that thou hast continued in thy praise of this man ever since the time that I left my tent? surely it must be a reward that thou seekest at his hand, so greatly dost thou extol him; yet Ailill and Maev have foretold that it is by me he shall fall.  Certain it is that for sake of the fee I shall gain he shall be slain quickly; and ’tis full time that the relief that we wait for should come.”  Thus then it was that in that place he spoke these words, and thus did his servant reply: 

Ferdia

’Tis time that I grant my assistance! 
Be still:  let thy praise of him sink: 
Peer not, like a seer, at the distance;
Wilt fail me on battle-field’s brink? 
Though Cualgne’s proud champion, displaying
His gambols and pride thou dost see;
Full soon shalt thou witness his slaying
For price to be paid down to me.

Servant

If he who this glory is showing
Be champion of Cualgne indeed;
’Tis not in retreat he is going;
To meet us he cometh with speed: 
He comes, nor ’tis slowly he blunders,
Like wind his swift journey he makes;
As stream, from the cliff-top that thunders;
As bolt, from the storm-cloud that breaks.

Ferdia

’Tis pay at his hand thou hast taken,
So loudly resoundeth thy praise;
Else why, since our tent was forsaken,
Hast sung with such frequence thy lays? 
Men, like thou, who, when foes are appearing,
Would to chant the foe’s praises begin,
Will attack not, when battle is nearing,
But the name of base cowards shall win.