Now at early morn Eochaid Juil went out in order to bathe his hands in the spring, and Cuchulain saw his shoulder through the hood of his tunic, and he hurled his spear at him, and he pierced him.  And he by himself slew thirty-and-three of them, and then Senach the Unearthly assailed him, and a great fight was fought between them, and Cuchulain slew him; and after that Labraid approached, and he brake before him those armies.

Then Labraid entreated Cuchulain to stay his hand from the slaying; and “I fear now,” said Laeg, “that the man will turn his wrath upon us; for he hath not found a war to suffice him.  Go now,” said Laeg, “and let there be brought three vats of cold water to cool his heat.  The first vat into which he goeth shall boil over; after he hath gone into the second vat, none shall be able to bear the heat of it:  after he hath gone into the third vat, its water shall have but a moderate heat.”

And when the women saw Cuchulain’s return, Fand sang thus: 

Fidga’s[FN#36] plain, where the feast assembles,
Shakes this eve, as his car he guides;
All the land at the trampling trembles;
Young and beardless, in state he rides.

Blood-red canopies o’er him swinging
Chant, but not as the fairies cry;
Deeper bass from the car is singing,
Deeply droning, its wheels reply.

Steeds are bounding beneath the traces,
None to match them my thought can find;
Wait a while!  I would note their graces: 
On they sweep, like the spring’s swift wind.

High in air, in his breath suspended,
Float a fifty of golden balls;
Kings may grace in their sports have blended,
None his equal my mind recalls.

[FN#36] Pronounced, nearly, Fee-ga.

Dimples four on each cheek are glowing,
One seems green, one is tinged with blue,
One dyed red, as if blood were flowing,
One is purple, of lightest hue.

Sevenfold light from his eyeballs flashes,
None may speak him as blind, in scorn;
Proud his glances, and dark eyelashes
Black as beetle, his eyes adorn.

Well his excellence fame confesses,
All through Erin his praise is sung;
Three the hues of his high-piled tresses;
Beardless yet, and a stripling young.

Red his blade, it hath late been blooded;
Shines above it its silver hilt;
Golden bosses his shield have studded,
Round its rim the white bronze is spilt.

O’er the slain in each slaughter striding,
War he seeketh, at risk would snatch: 
Heroes keen in your ranks are riding,
None of these is Cuchulain’s match.

From Murthemne he comes, we greet him,
Young Cuchulain, the champion strong;
We, compelled from afar to meet him,
Daughters all of Aed Abra, throng.

Every tree, as a lordly token,
Stands all stained with the red blood rain
War that demons might wage is woken,
Wails peal high as he raves again.