[p 32]
]THE HUNTER
I crept up Benbulbin a-hunting the boar;
Mist swooped on the heather, mist swept down the shore,
And all of the tongues of the mountain, they murmured behind and before.
Then out of a cleft rose a terrible cry,
And a form like a demon went ravening by,
And I fell in a quake on the moss, and I thought I should die.
I ’m no hunting man now, and I sit by the fire,
And whenever the wind keens around by the byre,
I shiver and rock like a reed that has root in the mire.