But, whether this comparative lateness of the "Combat at the Ford" be true or not, it, together with all the varied work contained in this collection, with the possible exception of the short extract from the Glenn Masain "Deirdre," is in the actual form that we have it, older than the Norman Conquest of Ireland, older than the Norse Sagas. Its manuscript authority is older than that of the Volsunga Saga; its present form precedes the birth of Chretien de Troyes, the first considerable name in French literature, and, in a form not much unlike that in which we have it, it is probably centuries older than its actual manuscript date. The whole thing stands at the very beginning of the literature of Modern Europe, and compares by no means unfavourably with that which came after, and may, in part, have been inspired by it. Surely it deserves to be raised from its present position as a study known only to a few specialists, and to form part of the mental equipment of every man who is for its own sake interested in and a lover of literature. INTRODUCTION IN VERSE 'Tis hard an audience now to win For lore that Ireland's tales can teach; And faintly, 'mid the modern din, Is heard the old heroic speech. For long the tales in silence slept; The ancient tomes by few were read; E'en those who still its knowledge kept Have thought the living music dead. And some, to save the lore from death, With modern arts each tale would deck, Inflate its rhymes with magic breath, As if to buoy a sinking wreck. They graft new morbid magic dreams On tales where beating life is felt: In each romance find mystic gleams, And traces of the "moody Celt." Yet, though with awe the grassy mound That fairies haunt, is marked to-day; And though in ancient tales are found Dim forms of gods, long passed away; Though later men to magic turned, Inserting many a Druid spell; And ill the masters' craft had learned Who told the tales, and told them well; No tale should need a magic dress Or modern art, its life to give: Each for itself, or great, or less, Should speak, if it deserves to live. Think not a dull, a scribal pen Dead legends wrote, half-known, and feared: In lettered lands to poet men Romance, who lives to-day, appeared. For when, in fear of warrior bands, Had Learning fled the western world, And, raised once more by Irish hands, Her banner stood again unfurled; 'Twas there, where men her laws revered, That Learning aided Art's advance; And Ireland bore, and Ireland reared These Eldest Children of Romance. Her poets knew the Druid creeds; Yet not on these their thoughts would rest: They sang of love, of heroes' deeds, Of kingly pomp, of cheerful jest. Not as in Greece aspired their thought, They joyed in battles wild and stern; Yet pity once to men they taught From whom a fiercer age could learn. Their frequent theme was war: they sang The praise of chiefs of courage high; Yet, from their harps the accents rang That taught to knighthood chivalry.