Hush, woman! Do not speak to me! My thoughts are not with thee. My thoughts are still in the encounter at Féic.Linn Féic, Feic's Pool in the Boyne near Slane. See Macgnímharta Finn, § 18. CRR. § 25. My bloody corpse lies by the side of the Slope of two Brinks, my head all unwashed is among warrior-bands in fierce slaughter. It is blindnessLiterally, closeness, secretiveness.. for anyone making a tryst to set aside the tryst with death: the tryst that was made at Clárach has been kept by me in pale death.Literally, in my great (deadly) pallor. It was destined for me,—unhappy was my journey!— at Féic my grave had been marked out; it was ordained for me—sorrowful fight!Literally, fight of my sorrow.— to fall by warriors of another land. 'Tis not I alone who in the fulness of desires have gone astray to meet a woman— no reproach to thee, though it was for thy sake— wretched is our last meeting! I have come from afar to the tryst with thee; there was horror upon my noble companion.i.e., upon Ailill's wife. If we had known it would be thus, it had been easy not to persist. Men were wont to bear away ^gifts from Fothad ^{who is now} on his bed of death to the very hour in which he fell: even thus—a fight against fate!— the slaying of Fothad is not without benefit.Literally, substance. The noble-faced grey-horsed warrior-band has not betrayed me . Alas for the wonderful yew-forest that they should go into the abode of clay! If they had been alive, they would have revenged their lords: had mighty death not intervened,Literally, had there not been the hindrance of mighty death. this warrior-band had not been unavenged by me.Literally, it would not be a a fian without revenge. To their very end they were swift; they strove ever for victory over their foes. They would sing a stave—heavy their shout— it was from a noble lord they sprang. That was a joyous lithe-limbed band to the very hour when they were slain: the green-leaved forest has received them, it was an all-fierce slaughter. Well-armed Domnall, he of the red draught, he was the Lugi.e. Lug mac Ethlenn. of the well-accoutred hosts: by him in the ford—it was doom of deathLiterally, hardness of dóils, i.e. the black chafer, an emblem of death.— Congal the Slender fell. The three Eogans, the three Flanns, they were renowned outlaws; four men fell by each of them, it was not a coward's portion. Swiftly Cú Domna reached us, making for his name-sake: on the hill of the encounter the body of Flann the Little will be found. Thou wilt findLiterally, est tibi.—a ready union— it is hard for Conchobar! a hard fall that was of Eogan the Red's to the north-east of the river.viz. the Boyne. With him where his bloody bed is thou wilt find eight men: though we thought them feeble, the leavings of the weapon of Mugairne's son.A mac húi Mitgairne (Moguirni) is mentioned in Rawlinson B. 502, 125b & 4. Not feebly fights Falbe Flann, the play of his spear-strings withers the host; Fercorb of radiant body leapt ^{upon the field} and dealt seven murderous blows. The combat of Mugarn with Mugna,— two brave whelps were they; if the puissant fian had not come to them, their contest had been dour. It casts every tribe into dread, ^{the fair brood} of ^staunch Falbe the Red: before all the rest our two cup-bearers perished by each other's hand. O great distress from lack of drink, the parting for ever from copious plenty! I thought thou wouldst have come to me,Literally, I think thou wouldst come to me. though thou hadst not promised the fian. Front to front twelve warriors stood against me in mutual fight: not one of them all remains that I did not leave in slaughter. Thereupon we exchanged spears, I and Ailill, Eogan's son: we both of us perished thereof— Oh, the fierceness of these two stout thrusts! we perished mutually, though it was senseless; it was the encounter of two heroes. Do not wait for the terror of night on the battle-field among the resting-places of the hosts; one should not hold converse with a dead man, betake thee to thy house, carry my spoils with thee! Everyone will tell thee that it was not the raiment of a churl: a crimson cloak and a white tunic, a belt of silver, no paltry work. My five-pronged spear, a lance with venom, whose slaughters were many; a shield with five circles, with a boss of bronze, by which they used to swear binding oaths. The white cup of my cup-bearer, a shining gem, will glitter before thee; my golden finger-ring, my bracelets, treasures without a flaw, Nia Nári.e. Crimthann Nia Nár, from whom Dún Crimthainn on Howth is called. As to his expedition abroad and the spoils brought back from it, see the Four Masters, A.D. 9. brought them across the sea. Cáilte's brooch, a pin with luck, it was one of his marvellous treasures: two heads of silver round a head of gold, it is a good piece, though it is small. Quickly unclasp it—there was the end of blood-shedding!— the bronze coil around my neck: all this—they are noble spoils— is in the place where I fell on my side.Literally, where my side has dropped. My draught-board, no mean treasure, is thine; take it with thee! Noble blood drips upon its rim, it is not far hence where it lies. Many a body of the spear-armed hosts lies here and there around its crimson woof: the dense bush of the ruddy oak-wood conceals it by the side of the grave north-west. As thou carefully searchest for it, thou shouldst not speak much: earth never covered anything so marvellous as it. One half of its figures are yellow gold, the others are white bronze; its woof is of pearl; it is the wonder of smiths how it was wrought. Four candle -sticks, a white light, not feebly do they illumine its board; grease in their fire, no false story, The last verse is quite obscure to me. The bag for its figures—'tis a marvel of a story— its rim is embroidered with gold; the master-smith has left a lock upon it which no ignorant person can open. A four-cornered casket—it is tiny— it has been made of coils of red gold; one hundred ounces of white bronze have been put into it firmly. For it is of a coil of firm red gold, Dínoll the gold-smith brought it over the sea; even one of its clasps only has been priced at seven lay-women. Memories describe it as one of Turbe's master-works:Turbe Tragmar, a celebrated goldsmith, father of Gobbán Sáer, from whom Turvey (Tráig Turbi) on the northern coast of Co. Dublin is called. See § 125 and ii, p. 473.. in the time of Art,—he was a luxurious king,— 'tis then Turbe, lord of many herds, made it. Many a skirmish has been fought about it by the king of the Romans in Latium; after a banquet of wine,—'twas an intoxicating drink,— 'tis then it was revealed to Find. Smiths never made any work to which it can be compared; earth never has hidden with a king a jewel that is so marvellous. If thou be cunning as to its price, 'tis plain to me thy children will not be miserable; if thou hoard it, a close treasure, no race of thine will be in want.Literally, narrow. There are around us here and there many spoils whose luck is famous; horrible are the huge entrails which the Mórrígani.e. the battle-goddess. washes. She has come to us from the edge of a pillar (?), 'tis she who has egged us on; many are the spoils she washes, horrible the hateful laugh she laughs. She has flung her mane over her back, a stout heart I can make nothing of recht. that hates her; though it is near us here where she is, let not fear attack thy shape. If hitherto I have been in peril, for my salvation; O woman, fair was the aspect under which we parted. I shall now part from all that is human, in the morning after the band of youths. Go to thy house, do not stay here, the end of the night is at hand. Some one will at all times remember the reicne of Fothad Canainne; my discourse with thee shall not be unrenowned, if thou consider my bequest. Since my grave will be frequented, let a mai or m'ai perhaps miswritten for m'ainm my epitaph. be placed, a conspicuous tomb; no loss of labour thou seest from thy trouble after thy love. My riddled body must part from thee awhile, my soul to be tortured by the black demon. Save ^for the worship of Heaven's King, love of this world is folly. It is the dusky ousel that laughs a greeting to all the faithful: my speech, my shape are spectral— hush, woman, do not speak to me!