Two poems he made, on the Plain of Swans and on Roirend in Offaly, full of vivid pictures and legends; and one of romantic tragedy, telling how the two daughters of King Tuatal Tectmar were treacherously slain, through the malice of the Leinster king. But of romances and songs of fair women in the days of Find, the best is the Poem of Gael, who composed it to win a princess for his bride. Of fair Credé of the Yellow Hair it was said that there was scarce a gem in all Erin that she had not got as a love-token, but that she would give her heart to none. Credé had vowed that she would marry the man who made the best verses on her home, a richly-adorned dwelling in the south, under the twin cones of the Paps, and within sight of Lough Leane and Killarney. Cael took up the challenge, and invoking the Genius that dwelt in the sacred pyramid of Brugh on the Boyne he made these verses, and came to recite them to yellow-haired Credé: "It would be happy for me to be in her home, Among her soft and downy couches, Should Credé deign to hear me; Happy for me would be my journey. A bowl she has, whence berry-juice flows, With which she colors her eyebrows black; She has clear vessels of fermenting ale; Cups she has, and beautiful goblets. The color of her house is white like lime; Within it are couches and green rushes; Within it are silks and blue mantles; Within it are red gold and crystal cups. Of its sunny chamber the corner stones Are all of silver and yellow gold, Its roof in stripes of faultless order Of wings of brown and crimson red. Two doorposts of green I see, Nor is the door devoid of beauty; Of carved silver,--long has it been renowned,-- Is the lintel that is over the door. Credé's chair is on your right hand, The pleasantest of the pleasant it is; All over a blaze of Alpine gold, At the foot of her beautiful couch... The household which is in her house To the happiest fate has been destined; Grey and glossy are their garments; Twisted and fair is their flowing hair. Wounded men would sink in sleep, Though ever so heavily teeming with blood, With the warbling of the fairy birds From the eaves of her sunny summer-room. If I am blessed with the lady's grace, Fair Credé for whom the cuckoo sings, In songs of praise shall ever live, If she but repay me for my gift.... There is a vat of royal bronze, Whence flows the pleasant; nice of malt; An apple-tree stands over the vat, With abundance of weighty fruit. When Credé's goblet is filled With the ale of the noble vat, There drop down into the cup forthwith Four apples at the same time. The four attendants that have been named, Arise and go to the distributing, They present to four of the guests around