“If true thy tale,” he cries,
“This blade thy head would off thee smite;
For ne’er my valour in the fight,
Nor prowess didst thou prize.
Would that like thee, both old and weak,
Were the Fenians all, that my sword might reek
In their craven blood, and their cairns might swell
On the grassy lea!—for since Cumhail fell,
O’ercome in fateful strife
By Morni’s son of the golden shields,