With his hounds alone and his trusty blade,
The son of Luno’s skill,
On the track of the flying doe he strayed
To Guillin’s pathless hill.
But when he came to its hard-won height
No deer appeared in view;
If east or west she had sped her flight
Nor hounds nor huntsman knew.
But those sprang westward o’er the sod,
While eastward Fionn press’d—