itcheries are they--
The brood of Calatin--beware! beware!
They proffer of their fulsome food a share,
And, 'Stay with us a while,' a false crone cries
'Unseemly is the strong who would the weak despise'

He fain would pass, but leapt upon the ground,
The proud, the fearless! for sweet honour's sake--
With spells and poisons had they cook'd a hound,
Of which he was forbidden to partake
But his name-charm the brave Cuchullin brake,
And their foul food he in his left hand took--
Eftsoons his former strength that arm and side forsook

For, O Cuchullin! could'st thou ere forget,
When fast by Culann's fort on yon black night,
Thou fought'st and slew the ban-dog dark as jet,
Which scared the thief, and put the foe to flight!
A tender youth thou wert of warrior might,
And all the land did with thy fame resound,
As Cathbad, the magician, named thee 'Culann's hound'

Loud o'er Mid Luachair road the chariot roll'd,
Round Shab Fuad desolate and grand,
Till Ere with hate the hero did behold,
Hast'ning to sweep the foemen from the land,
His sword flash'd red and radiant in his hand,
In sunny splendour was his spear upraised,
And hovering o'er his head the light of heroes blazed

He comes! he comes!' cried Ere as he drew near
'Await him, Men of Erin, and be strong!'
Their faces blanch'd, their bodies shook with fear--
'Now link thy shields and close together throng,
And shout the war-cry loud and fierce and long
Then Ere, with cunning of his evil heart,
Set heroes forth in pairs to feign to fight apart

As furious tempests, that in deep woods roar
Assault the giant trees and lay them low,
As billows toss the seaweed on the shore,
As sweeping sickles do the ripe fields mow--
Cuchullin, rolling fiercely on the foe,
Broke through the linked ranks upon the plain,
To drench the field with blood and round him heap the slain

And when he reach'd a warrior-pair that stood
In feigned strife upon a knoll of green,
Their weapons clashing but unstained with blood,
A satirist him besought to intervene,
Whereat he slew them as he drave between--
"Thy spear to me," the satirist cried the while,
The hero answering, "Nay," he cried, "I'll thee revile."

'Reviled for churlishness I ne'er have been,"
Cuchullin call'd, up-rising in his pride,
And cast his ashen spear bronze-tipp'd and keen
And slew the satirist and nine beside,
Then his fresh ons