Many were the deaths of men and chiefs, Their blood spreading on the plain. Mourn, ye race of songs, For Sith-alum the child of the braves: Evir, heave thy snowy breast For gallant Ardan of fiercest look. As two roes that fall from the mountain, [They fell] 'neath the hand of dark-shielded Swaran; While dauntless he moved before his thousands, As a spirit in the cloudy sky, A spirit that sits in cloud, Half made by mist from the north, When bends the lifeless mariner A look of woe on the summit of the waves. Nor slept thy hand by the side, Chief of the isle of gentle showers; Thy brand was in the path of spoils, As lightning flashing thick, When the people fall in the glen, And the face of the mountain, as in a blaze, [Or is seething white with torrents,] Du-sron-geal snorted over brave men, Sith-fadda wash'd his hoof in blood, Behind him lay full many a hero, As a wood on Cromla of the floods, When moves the blast through the heath, With the airy ghosts of night. Weep on the sounding rock, Noble daughter of the isle of ships; Bend thy splendid countenance over the sea, Thou lovelier than a spirit in the woods, Rising up soft and slow As a sunbeam in the silence of the hills. He fell, soon he fell in the battle, The youth of thy love is pale, 'Neath the sword of great Cuchullin. What has made thee so wan and cold? He will move no more to hardy deeds, He will not strike the high blood of heroes; Trenar, youthful Trena has fallen in death; Maid, them shalt see thy love no more for ever. His hounds howl piteously At home, as they see his ghost, His bow is unstrung and bare; His death-sound is on the knoll, [_i.e._, on the knoll he utters his death-groan.] As roll a thousand waves to the shore, So under Swaran advanced the foe; As meets the shore a thousand waves, So Erin met the king of ships. Then arose the voices of death, The sound of battle-shout and clang of arms, Shields and mail lay broken on the ground. A sword like lightning was high in each hand, The noise of battle rose from wing to wing, Of battle, roaring, bloody, hot, As a hundred hammers striking wild, By turns, showers of red sparks from the glowing forge. Who are those on hilly Sena? Who of darkest and fiercest gloom? Who likest to the murkiest cloud? The sword of each chief as fire on the waves, The face of the woods is troubled, The wave-beat rock shakes on the shore. Who, but Swaran of ships And the chief of Erin, renown'd in song? The eye of the hosts beholds aside The encounter of the mighty heroes. Night descended on the combat of the braves, And hid the undecided conflict. FINGAL, Book i., 313-502. THE END _Ballantyne, Roberts, and Company, Printers, Edinburgh._