th a
fringe of gold. On his feet he wore shoes of white bronze ornamented
with gold, and a silken hood was on his head. The gatekeeper wondered
at the sight of the wee man, and went to report the matter to King
Fergus. "Is he less," asked Fergus, "than my dwarf and poet AEda?"
"Verily," said the gatekeeper, "he could stand upon the palm of AEda's
hand and have room to spare." Then with much laughter and wonder they
all trooped out, lords and ladies, to the great gate to view the wee
man and to speak with him. But Eisirt, when he saw them, waved them
back in alarm, crying, "Avaunt, huge men; bring not your heavy breath
so near me; but let yon man that is least among you approach me and
bear me in." So the dwarf AEda put Eisirt on his palm and bore him into
the banqueting hall.

Then they set him on the table, and Eisirt declared his name and
calling. The King ordered that meat and drink should be given him, but
Eisirt said, "I will neither eat of your meat nor drink of ale." "By
our word," said Fergus, "'tis a haughty wight; he ought to be dropped
into a goblet that he might at least drink all round him." The
cupbearer seized Eisirt and put him into a tankard of ale, and he swam
on the surface of it. "Ye wise men of Ulster," he cried, "there is
much knowledge and wisdom ye might get from me, yet ye will let me be
drowned!" "What, then?" cried they. Then Eisirt, beginning with the
King, set out to tell every hidden sin that each man or woman had
done, and ere he had gone far they with much laughter and chiding
fetched him out of the ale-pot and dried him with fair satin napkins.
"Now ye have confessed that I know somewhat to the purpose," said
Eisirt, "and I will even eat of your food, but do ye give heed to my
words, and do ill no more."

Fergus then said, "If thou art a poet, Eisirt, give us now a taste of
thy delightful art." "That will I," said Eisirt, "and the poem that I
shall recite to you shall be an ode in praise of my king, Iubdan the
Great." Then he recited this lay:--

"A monarch of might
Is Iubdan my king.
His brow is snow-white,
His hair black as night;
As a red copper bowl
When smitten will sing,
So ringeth the voice
Of Iubdan the king.
His eyen, they roll
Majestic and bland
On the lords of his land
Arrayed for the fight,
A spectacle grand!
Like a torrent they rush
With a waving of swords
And the bridles all ringing
And cheeks all aflush,