“You may go,” she replied, “but they are near enough to me as it is.” He then asked her if she did not recognise him, and told who he was, but she refused to believe him, saying her dear child (_mo ghràdh_) could not be so much altered in the time. He put the matter out of question by asking if she would know her own handiwork, and shewing what was left of the hose (_osain_) she had given him, to convince her. When she saw the labour of her own hands (_saothair a làmh fhéin_), she joyfully welcomed him, and went with him where the marriage party were. Those who were there were surprised to see her arrival, knowing the sad state in which she was at this time of year, through the loss of her foster-child. They, however, received the stranger as well as herself with the utmost kindness. The bride made the remark, when the stranger turned his back, that he was like Mac an Uidhir but when his face was towards her he appeared like a stranger whom she had never seen before; but that her heart warmed towards him. The custom was then gone through of the stranger drinking out of the bride’s glass, and Mac-an-Uidhir when doing this, slipped a ring into the glass, which, she immediately recognised as that of her first lover. The whole matter was then upset, and the party for whom the preparations were made were dispersed, and the bride followed the fortunes of her first lover. Of a song made by the foster-mother to Mac-an-Uidhir, when he was reported to have been drowned, and was looked upon as dead, the following verses have been preserved. In the translation the literal words are given, but no attempt is made at reducing them to the rhyme which is essential in English poetry. “Thou good son of Euar Of generous and noble heart At one time little I thought It would ever happen That you would be drowned And your boat return empty While its irons would last And repair was not needed While its stern-post stood, Its sides and prow, While yards would hold out, Or a fragment of its oak. Your well ordered new plaid Is on the surface of the grey waves Your head is the sport of the little gull And your side of the big gull; Your sister is without brother And your mother without son Your bride without husband And poor me without god-son.” Ach a dheagh Mhic an Uidhir ’G an robh an cridhe fial farsuinn Bha mi uair ’s beag shaoil mi Gu ’m faodadh sid tachairt Gu ’m biodh tus’ air do bhàthadh ’S do bhàta tighinn dachaidh Fhad ’s a mhaireadh a h-iaruinn ’S nach iarradh i calcadh Thùg horoinn O. Fhad ’s a mhaireadh a h-iaruinn ’S nach iarradh i calcadh Fhad ’s a mhaireadh a h-earluinn Agus tàthadh ’s a saidhean Fhad ’s a mhaireadh a slatan Agus bloidhean d’a darach Thùg horoinn O.