Memories describe it as one of Turvey's master-works:
In the time of Art—he was a luxurious king—'tis then Turvey, lord of many herds, made it.
Smiths never made any work comparable with it;
Earth never hid a king's jewel so marvellous.
If thou be cunning as to its price, I know thy children will never be in want;
If thou hoard it, a close treasure, none of thy offspring will ever be destitute.
There are around us here and there many spoils of famous luck:
Horrible are the huge entrails which the Morrigan[9] washes.
She came to us from the edge of a spear, 'tis she that egged us on.
Many are the spoils she washes, terrible the hateful laugh she laughs.
She has flung her mane over her back—it is a stout heart that will not quail at her:
Though she is so near to us, do not let fear overcome thee!
In the morning I shall part from all that is human, I shall follow the warrior-band;
Go to thy house, stay not here, the end of the night is at hand.
Some one will at all times remember this song of Fothad Canann;
My discourse with thee shall not be unrenowned, if thou remember my bequest.
Since my grave will be frequented, let a conspicuous tomb be raised;
Thy trouble for thy love is no loss of labour.