To the land of the Ultonians there came on the morrow a mighty host, and the Red Branch was wiped out for ever. Emain Macha was cast into ruins, and Conor died in a madness of sorrow.
And still, in that land of Erin where she died, still in the lonely cleuchs and glens, and up the mist-hung mountain sides of Loch Etive, where she knew her truest happiness, we can sometimes almost hear the wind sighing the lament: “Deirdrê the beautiful is dead ... is dead!”
“I hear a voice crying, crying, crying: is it the wind
I hear, crying its old weary cry time out of mind?
The grey wind weeps, the grey wind weeps, the grey wind weeps:
Dust on her breast, dust on her eyes, the grey wind weeps.”
Fiona Macleod.
FOOTNOTES:
[14] Now Dunskaith.
[15] Fairies.
[16] The Hill of Howth, at Dublin Bay.
[17] Dale of the Waterfall: now Dalness.