Is seen the snorting, high-mettled steed; The high-maned, broad, black-chested, High-leaping, strong son of the hills. Loud and resounding is his hoof: The spread of his frontlets above Is like mist on the haunts of the elk; Bright was his aspect, and swift his going, Sith-fadda [Long-stride] is his name. By the other side of the chariot Is the arch-neck'd, snorting, Narrow-maned, high-mettled, strong-hoofed, Swift-footed, wide-nostril'd steed of the mountains, Du-sron-geal is the name of the horse. Full a thousand slender thongs Bind the chariot on high; The bright steel bits of the bridles Are cover'd with foam in their cheeks: Blazing stones, sparkling bright, Bend aloft on the manes of the steeds-- Of the steeds that are like the mist on the mountains, Bearing the chief to his renown. Wilder than the deer is their aspect, Powerful as the eagle their strength; Their sound is like the savage winter On Gormal, when cover'd with snow. In the chariot is seen the chief, The mighty son of the keenest arms-- Cuchullin of the blue-spotted shields. The son of Sema, renown'd in song, His cheek is as the polish'd yew; His strong eye is spreading high, 'Neath his dark-arch'd and slender brow. His yellow hair, as a blaze round his head, Pouring [waving] round the splendid face of the hero, While he draws from behind his spear. Flee, great chief of ships! Flee from the hero who comes As a storm from the glen of streams." "When did I flee? said the king of ships; When fled Swaran of the dark shields? When did I shun the threatening danger, Son of Arn--aye feeble? I have borne the tempest of the skies, On the bellowing sea of inclement showers; The sternest battles I have borne, Why should I flee from the conflict, Son of Arn, of feeblest hand? Arise my thousands on the field, Pour as the roar of the ocean, When bends the blast from the cloud, Let gallant Lochlin rise around my steel. Be ye like rocks on the edge of the ocean, In my own land of oars, That lifts the pine aloft To battle with the tempests of the sky." As the sound of autumn from two mountains Towards each other drew the braves, As a mighty stream from two rocks, Flowing, pouring on the plain; Sounding dark, fierce in battle, Met Lochlin and Innesfail. Chief mix'd his strokes with chief, Man contended with man, Steel clang'd on steel, Helmets are cleft on high, Blood is pouring fast around, The bow-string twangs on the polish'd yew; Arrows traverse the sky, Spears strike and fall, As the bolt of night on the mountains, As the bellowing seething of the ocean, When advance the waves on high; Like the torrent behind the mountains Was the gloom and din of the conflict. Though the hundred bards of Cormag were there, And their songs described the combat, Scarcely could they tell Of each headless corpse and death--