The Bard, expelled from the dwellings of men by plunderers according to one account, by a discontented helpmate according to another, is placed in a lone out-house, where he meets an owl which he supposes himself to engage in an interchange of sentiment respecting the olden time:—
Hunter.
O wailing owl of Strona's vale!
We wonder not thy night's repose
Is mournful, when with Donegal
In distant years thou first arose:
O lonely bird! we wonder not,
For time the strongest heart can bow,
That thou should'st heave a mournful note,
Or that thy sp'rit is heavy now!
Owl.
Thou truly sayest I lone abide,
I lived with yonder ancient oak,
Whose spreading roots strike deep and wide
Amidst the moss beside the rock;
And long, long years have gone at last,
And thousand moons have o'er me stole,
And many a race before me past,
Still I am Strona's lonely owl!
Hunter.
Now, since old age has come o'er thee,
Confess, as to a priest, thy ways;
And fearless tell thou unto me
The glorious tales of bygone days.
Owl.
Rapine and falsehood ne'er I knew,
Nor grave nor temples e'er have torn,
My youthful mate still found me true—
Guiltless am I although forlorn!
I 've seen brave Britto's son, the wild,
The powerful champion, Fergus, too,
Gray-haired Foradden, Strona's child—
These were the heroes great and true!
Hunter.