Warm, sweet streams across the country,
Choice of mead and wine,
Distinguished beings who know no stain,
Conception without sin, without lust.
We behold everyone on every side,
And none beholds us;
The gloom of Adam's transgression it is
Conceals us from their reckoning.
O Woman, if thou come among my strong people,
A golden top will crown thy head;
Fresh swine-flesh, new milk and ale for drink
Thou shalt have with me, O woman fair!
[THE SONG OF THE FAIRIES]
When they made the road across the bog of Lamrach for
Mider, their King.
Pile on the soil; thrust on the soil:
Red are the oxen around who toil:
Heavy the troops that my words obey;
Heavy they seem, and yet men are they.
Strongly, as piles, are the tree-trunks placed:
Red are the wattles above them laced:
Tired are your hands, and your glances slant;
One woman's winning this toil may grant!
Oxen ye are, but revenge shall see;
Men who are white shall your servants be;
Rushes from Teffa are cleared away;
Grief is the price that the man shall pay:
Stones have been cleared from the rough Meath ground;
Where shall the gain or the harm be found?
Thrust it in hand! Force it in hand!
Nobles this night, as an ox-troop, stand;
Hard is the task that is asked, and who
From the bridging of Lamrach shall gain, or rue?
A. H. Leahy.