r a while, O son of Calphurn of the sweet bells, and you would
overtake your nones again.

If you knew the story of the bird the way I know it, you would be crying
lasting tears, and you would give no heed to your God for a while.

In the country of Lochlann of the blue streams, Finn, son of Cumhal, of
the red-gold cups, found that bird you hear now; I will tell you its
story truly.

Doire an Chairn, that wood there to the west, where the Fianna used to
be delaying, it is there they put the blackbird, in the beauty of the
pleasant trees.

The stag of the heather of quiet Cruachan, the sorrowful croak from the
ridge of the Two Lakes; the voice of the eagle of the Valley of the
Shapes, the voice of the cuckoo on the Hill of Brambles.

The voice of the hounds in the pleasant valley; the scream of the eagle
on the edge of the wood; the early outcry of the hounds going over the
Strand of the Red Stones.

The time Finn lived and the Fianna, it was sweet to them to be listening
to the whistle of the blackbird; the voice of the bells would not have
been sweet to them.

There was no one of the Fianna without his fine silken shirt and his
soft coat, without bright armour, without shining stones on his head,
two spears in his hand, and a shield that brought victory.

If you were to search the world you would not find a harder man, best of
blood, best in battle; no one got the upper hand of him. When he went
out trying his white hound, which of us could be put beside Finn?

One time we went hunting on Slieve-nam-ban; the sun was beautiful
overhead, the voice of the hounds went east and west, from hill to hill.
Finn and Bran sat for a while on the hill, every man was jealous for the
hunt. We let out three thousand hounds from their golden chains; every
hound of them brought down two deer.

Patrick of the true crozier, did you ever see, east or west, a greater
hunt than that hunt of Finn and the Fianna? O son of Calphurn of the
bells, that day was better to me than to be listening to your
lamentations in the church.

* * * * *

There is no strength in my hands to-night, there is no power within me;
it is no wonder I to be sorowful, being thrown down in the sorrow of old
age.

Everything is a grief to me beyond any other man on the face of the
earth, to be dragging stones along to the church and the hill of the
priests.

I have a little story of our people. One time Finn had a mind to