When Cuchulain saw that his son was dead, he laid him on the earth, and he stood up, and a burst of anguish like the breaking of a heart came from him. And he cried aloud: “The end is come indeed for me:
“‘I am a man without son, without wife,
I am the Father who slew his own child,
I am a broken, rudderless bark,
Tossed from wave to wave in the tempest wild;
An apple blown loose from the garden wall,
I am over-ripe, and about to fall.’”
Then the men of Ulster came about Cuchulain and tried to comfort him, and they raised the body of Conla on a shield, as it is wont to do with heroes, and they made for him a noble grave, and buried him there, with a pillar-stone to mark the spot, and his name and his deeds written thereon. And all Ulster wept for him, and the King commanded that for three days no merriment or feasting should take place within the borders of Ulster, as is wont to be done on the death of a king.