F. A greater deed awaits thy hand, battle with Ferdiad son of Daman, hardened bloody weapons, friendly is my speech, do thou have with thee, O Cuchulain!

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Line 7 of O’Curry’s rendering of the first stanza should run:  “So that he may take the point of a weapon through him.”

Stanza 2 of the poem should run thus: 

It would be better for thee to stay, thy threats will not be gentle, there will be some one who shall have sickness on that account, distressful will be thy departure to encounter the Rock of Ulster; and ill may this venture turn out; long will be the remembrance of it, woe shall be to him who goeth that journey.

Line 4 of the next stanza, “I will not keep back to please you.”

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The literal rendering of the poem seems to be: 

I hear the creaking of a chariot with a beautiful silver yoke, the figure of a man with perfection (rises) from the wheels of the stout chariot; over Breg Row, over Braine they come (?), over the highway beside the lower part of the Burg of the Trees; it (the chariot?) is triumphant for its victories.

It is a heroic (?) hound who drives it, it is a trusty charioteer who yokes it, it is a noble hawk who scourges his horses to the south:  he is a stubborn hero, he is certain (to cause) heavy slaughter, it is well-known that not with indexterity (?) is the bringing of the battle to us.

Woe for him who shall be upon the hillock waiting for the hound who is fitly framed (lit. in harmony"); I myself declared last year that there would come, though it be from somewhere, a hound the Hound of Emain Macha, the Hound with a form on which are hues of all colours, the Hound of a territory, the Hound of battle; I hear, we have heard.

As a second rendering of the above in a metre a little closer to the original than that given in the text, the following may be suggested: 

Shrieks from war-car wake my hearing,
Silver yokes are nigh appearing;
High his perfect form is rearing,
He those wheels who guides! 
Braina, Braeg Ross past it boundeth,
Triumph song for conquests soundeth,
Lo! the roadway’s course it roundeth,
Skirting wooded sides.

Hero Hound the scourge hard plieth,
Trusty servant yoke-strap tieth,
Swift as noble hawk, he flieth,
Southward urging steeds! 
Hardy chief is he, and story
Soon must speak his conquests gory,
Great for skilful war his glory;
We shall know his deeds!

Thou on hill, the fierce Hound scorning,
Waitest; woe for thee is dawning;
Fitly framed he comes, my warning
Spoke him thus last year: 
“Emain’s Hound towards us raceth,
Guards his land, the fight he faceth,
Every hue his body graceth:” 
Whom I heard, I hear.

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