Whose is that hairy, black, great head, With cheeks than any rose more red, That which hangs nighest thy left arm, The head whose colour has not changed?
That head the king of swift steeds own’d, Said Cairbar’s son of vigorous lance; In vengeance for my foster son, I took that head and bore it far.
What head is that I see beyond, Covered with smooth, soft, flowing hair, His eye like grass, his teeth like bloom, His beauty such as none is like?
Manadh, the man that own’d the steeds, Aoife’s son, who plunder’d every sea; I left his trunk ’reft of its head, I slew his people, every man.
What head is that I see thee grasp, Great Connal of the gentle streams; Since that Cuchullin[129] now is dead, Whom to avenge him did’st thou take?
’Tis the head of Mac Fergus of steeds, He in extremity so bold, My sister’s son from the tall tower, His head I from his body wrenched.
What fair-haired head is that to the east, Whose hand might well have seized the heads; Well did I know his voice of old, For he and I were friends awhile?
Down there it was the Cu did fall, His body cast in fairest mould; Cu, son of Con, of poets’ king, Among the last I took his head.
What two heads are those farthest out, Great Connal of the sweetest voice; Of thy great love hide not from me The names of them so dark in arms?
’Tis Laoghar’s head and that of Cuilt, The two who fell pierced by my arms; One of them had Cuchullin struck, Hence his red blood my weapons dyes.