It was bold Orm Ungarswayne
Struck the hill with such a might,
That it was a miracle,
That the hill fell not outright.
From the hill Orm’s father cried,
Where so long, so long he’d lain;
“Cannot I in quiet lie
Deep within my dark domain?
Who upon my hill doth stand?
Who doth dare disturb my bones?
Cannot I in quiet lie
’Neath my heavy roof of stones?
Who doth dare my sleep to scare?
Who brings down this ruin all?
Let him fear, for now I swear
That by Birting he shall fall.”
“I’m Orm Ungarswayne, thy son,
Youngest son, O father dear:
And to beg a mighty boon
In my need I seek thee here.”
“If thou be Orm Ungarswayne,
Orm the kempion bold and free,
Silver, gold, last year I told—
All thou cravedst—o’er to thee.”
“Thou wast free of gold and fee,
Glittering trash of little worth—
Birting now I crave of thee,
Birting bravest sword of earth.”
“Never shalt thou Birting win,
To obtain the King’s fair daughter,
Till to Ireland thou hast been,
And aveng’d thy father’s slaughter.”
“Give to me the Birting sword,
And with Birting bid me thrive,
Or I will thy sheltering hill
Into thousand atoms rive.”
“Stretch thou down thy right hand here,
Take the falchion from my side;
If thou break thy father’s hill,
Dreadful wo will thee betide.”