Conall
We bid you begone from a house that has fallen on shame and disgrace.
Cuchulain
I am losing patience, Conall—I find you stuffed with pride,
The flagon full to the brim, the front door standing wide;
You’d put me off with words, but the whole thing’s plain enough,
You are waiting for some message to bring you to war or love
In that old secret country beyond the wool-white waves,
Or it may be down beneath them in foam-bewildered caves