Though in their blood thine arms did’st soil;
These heads thou hast upon the withe
Tell me their owners, now thy spoil.
Daughter of Orgill of the steeds,
Evir, whose words sweet feelings waken,
’Twas to avenge Cochulin’s death
That I these many heads have taken.
Whose is that nearest thy left arm,—
That mighty, hairy, dusky head,—
That head whose colour has not changed,