The Green Helmet and Other Poems

by W. B. Yeats

Or the Red Man of the Boyne, for they are of your own sort,

Or if the waves have vexed you and you would find a sport

Of a more Irish fashion, go fight without a rest

A caterwauling phantom among the winds of the west.

But what are you waiting for? into the water, I say!

If there’s no sword can harm you, I’ve an older trick to play,

An old five-fingered trick to tumble you out of the place;

I am Sualtim’s son Cuchulain—what, do you laugh in my face?

Red Man