‘Alas! O Children of Lir,’ said Fionnghuala, ‘evil indeed is our condition now, for we cannot support the salt-water, and yet it is prohibited to us to be absent from it; and if the salt-water enters into our sores, we shall die;’ and she made this lay: —
Fionnghuala
- Moanful are we this night,
Without feathers covering our bodies,
And it is cold for our delicate soles
On the rough, uneven rocks.- Bad was our stepmother to us,
When she played druidism upon us,
Sending us out upon the sea,
In the shapes of wonderful swans.- Our bath upon the shore's ridge is
The foam of the brine-crested tide;
Our share of the ale-feast is
The brine of the blue-crested sea.
- One daughter and three sons,
We are wont to be in the clefts of rocks;
Upon the rocks, so hard for one,
Our existence is moanful.