They remained for a year on the Sea of Moyle, when one night, as they were on the Rock of the Seals, the waters congealed around them with the cold; and as they lay on the rock, their feet and wings were frozen to it, so that they could not move a limb. When at length, after using what strength remained in their bodies, they succeeded in getting free, the skin of their feet, and the innermost down of their breasts, and the quills of their wings, remained clinging to the icy crag.
"Woe to the children of Lir!" said Fingula, "mournful is our fate to-night, for when the salt water pierces into our wounds, we shall be pained to death"; and she sung these lines:—
Sad is our hap this mournful night,
With mangled feet and plumage bleeding;
Our wings no more sustain our flight,
Woe comes to linked woe succeeding.
Ah, cruel was our step-dame's mind,
When hard to nature's sweet emotion,
She sent us here 'mid wave and wind,
To freeze on Moyle's relentless ocean.