“Bard of the Brand, thou Foster-Sire
Of him they slew—their friend—my lord—
What Head is that—the first—that frowns
Like a traitor self-abhorred?”
“Daughter of Orgill wounded sore,
Thou of the fateful eye serene,
Fergus is he. The feast he made
That snared thy Cuchullene.”
“What Head is that—the next—half-hid
In curls full lustrous to behold?
They mind me of a hand that once
I saw amid their gold.”
“’Tis Manadh. He that by the shore
Held rule, and named the waves his steeds:
’Twas he that struck the stroke accursed—
Headless this day he bleeds.”
“What Head is that close by—so still,
With half-closed lids, and lips that smile?
Methinks I know their voice: methinks
His wine they quaffed erewhile!”
“’Twas he raised high that severed head:
Thy head he raised, my Foster-Child!
That was the latest stroke I struck:
I struck that stroke, and smiled.”
“What Heads are those—that twain, so like,
Flushed as with blood by yon red sky?”
“Each unto each, his Head they rolled;
Red on that grass they lie.”
“That paler twain, which face the East?”
“Laegar is one; the other Hilt;
Silent they watched the sport! they share
The doom, that shared the guilt.”
“Bard of the Vengeance! well thou knew’st
Blood cries for blood! O kind, and true,
How many, kith and kin, have died
That mocked the man they slew?”
“O Woman of the fateful eye,
The untrembling voice, the marble mould,
Seven hundred men, in house or field,
For the man they mocked, lie cold.”