That leathern coat will do. The High King there
Being old in wisdom can think of times to come,
But the hawk’s sleepy till its well-beloved
Cries out amid the acorns, or it has seen
Its enemy like a speck upon the sun.
What’s Emain to the hawk when that clear eye
Is burning nearer up in the high air?
That buckle should be tighter. Give me your shield.
There is good level ground at Baile’s Yew-tree,
Some dozen yards from here, and it’s but truth