Stand up, O thou hero of Ulster! Wake from sleep! rise up, joyful and sound! Look on Conor the king! on my beauty, Will that loose not those slumbers profound? See the Ulstermen's clear shining shoulders! Hear their trumpets that call to the fight! See their war-cars that sweep through the valleys, As in hero-chess, leaping each knight. See their chiefs, and the strength that adorns them, Their tall maidens, so stately with grace; The swift kings, springing on to the battle, The great queens of the Ulstermen's race! The clear winter but now is beginning; Lo! the wonder of cold that hangs there! 'Tis a sight that should warn thee; how chilly! Of what length I yet of colour how bare! This long slumber is ill; it decays thee: 'Tis like "milk for the full" the saw saith Hard is war with fatigue; deadly weakness Is a Prince who stands second to Death. Wake! 'tis joy for the sodden, this slumber; Throw it off with a great glowing heat: Sweet-voiced friends for thee wait in great number: Ulster's champion! stand up on thy feet! And Cuchulain at her word stood up; and he passed his hand over his face, and he cast all his heaviness and his weariness away from him, and then he arose, and went on his way before him until he came to the enclosure that he sought; and in that enclosure Liban appeared to him. And Liban spoke to him, and she strove to lead him into the fairy hill; but "What place is that in which Labraid dwelleth?" said Cuchulain. It is easy for me to tell thee!" she said: Labra's home's a pure lake, whither Troops of women come and go; Easy paths shall lead thee thither, Where thou shalt swift Labra know. Hundreds his skilled arm repelleth; Wise be they his deeds who speak: Look where rosy beauty dwelleth; Like to that think Labra's cheek. Head of wolf, for gore that thirsteth, Near his thin red falchion shakes; Shields that cloak the chiefs he bursteth, Arms of foolish foes he breaks. Trust of friend he aye requiteth, Scarred his skin, like bloodshot eye; First of fairy men he fighteth; Thousands, by him smitten, die. Chiefs at Echaid[FN#35] Juil's name tremble; Yet his land-strange tale-he sought, He whose locks gold threads resemble, With whose breath wine-scents are brought. More than all strife-seekers noted, Fiercely to far lands he rides; Steeds have trampled, skiffs have floated Near the isle where he abides. Labra, swift Sword-Wielder, gaineth Fame for actions over sea; Sleep for all his watch sustaineth! Sure no coward hound is he. The chains on the necks of the coursers he rides, And their bridles are ruddy with gold: He hath columns of crystal and silver besides, The roof of his house to uphold. [FN#35] Pronounced, apparently, Ech-ay, the ch like the sound in "loch."