Our stepmother loved us long ago; Our stepmother now has wrought us woe: With magical wand and fearful words, She changed us to beautiful snow-white birds; And we live on the waters for evermore, By tempests driven from shore to shore. Finola again spoke and said, "Tell us now how long we shall be in the shape of swans, so that we may know when our miseries shall come to an end." "It would be better for you if you had not put that question," said Eva; "but I shall declare the truth to you, as you have asked me. Three hundred years on smooth Lake Darvra; three hundred years on the Sea of Moyle, between Erin and Alban;[XV.] three hundred years at Irros Domnann and Inis Glora[XVI.] on the Western Sea. Until the union of Largnen, the prince from the north, with Decca, the princess from the south; until the Taillkenn[XVII.] shall come to Erin, bringing the light of a pure faith; and until ye hear the voice of the Christian bell. And neither by your own power, nor by mine, nor by the power of your friends, can ye be freed till the time comes." Then Eva repented what she had done; and she said, "Since I cannot afford you any other relief, I will allow you to keep your own Gaelic speech; and ye shall be able to sing sweet, plaintive, fairy music, which shall excel all the music of the world, and which shall lull to sleep all that listen to it. Moreover, ye shall retain your human reason; and ye shall not be in grief on account of being in the shape of swans." And she chanted this lay-- Depart from me, ye graceful swans; The waters are now your home: Your palace shall be the pearly cave, Your couch the crest of the crystal wave, And your mantle the milk-white foam! Depart from me, ye snow-white swans With your music and Gaelic speech: The crystal Darvra, the wintry Moyle, The billowy margin of Glora's isle;-- Three hundred years on each! Victorious Lir, your hapless sire, His lov'd ones in vain shall call; His weary heart is a husk of gore, His home is joyless for evermore, And his anger on me shall fall! Through circling ages of gloom and fear Your anguish no tongue can tell; Till Faith shall shed her heavenly rays, Till ye hear the Taillkenn's anthem of praise, And the voice of the Christian bell! Then ordering her steeds to be yoked to her chariot she departed westwards, leaving the four white swans swimming on the lake. Our father shall watch and weep in vain; He never shall see us return again. Four pretty children, happy at home; Four white swans on the feathery foam; And we live on the waters for evermore, By tempests driven from shore to shore. FOOTNOTES: [XIII.] The word "fratricide" is the nearest English equivalent to the original word, _fionghal_, which means the murder of a relative. [XIV.] Lake Darvra, now Lough Derravaragh, in Westmeath.