Bald Conan spoke--“A sweeter sound Ne’er tingled on my ear; If Fionn be lost, may he not be found Till end the distant year! But, Caoilte of the nimble feet, Ye shall not want a chieftain meet; In me, till Fionn’s fate be told, The leader of your host behold!” Although the Fenian bands were torn With agony severe, We burst into a laugh of scorn Such arrogance to hear. To urge the quest, we then decree, Of Finn and his hounds the joyous three That still to triumph led; And soon from Almhuin’s halls away, With Caoilte, I, and our dark array, North to Slew Guillin sped. There, as with searching glance the eye O’er all the prospect rolled, Beside the lake a wretch we spy, Poor, withered, grey, and old. Disgust and horror touched the heart To see the bones all fleshless start In a frame so lank and wan; We thought him some starved fisher torn From the whelming stream, by famine worn, And left but the wreck of man. We asked if he had chanced to see A swift-paced chieftain go, With two fleet hounds, across the lea, Behind a fair young doe. He gave us back no answer clear, But in the nimble Caoilte’s ear He breathed his tale--O, tale of grief!-- That in him we saw the Fenian chief! Three sudden shouts to hear the tale Our host raised loud and shrill-- The badgers started in the vale, The wild deer on the hill. Then Conan fierce unsheathed his sword, And curs’d the Fenian king and his horde. “If true thy tale,” he cries, “This blade thy head would off thee smite; For ne’er my valour in the fight, Nor prowess didst thou prize. Would that like thee, both old and weak, Were the Fenians all, that my sword might reek In their craven blood, and their cairns might swell On the grassy lea!--for since Cumhail fell, O’ercome in fateful strife By Morni’s son of the golden shields, Our sons thou hast sent to foreign fields, Or of freedom reft and life.” “Bald, senseless wretch! our care is due To Finn’s sad state, or thy mouth should rue A speech so vile, and soon atone With shattered teeth and fractured bone.” Indignant Caoilte spoke. With equal wrath said Oscar stern, “Audacious babbler! silence learn-- What foe e’er felt thy stroke?” Then Conan thus--“Vain boy! be dumb, Or tell what deed of fame Did e’er thy Finn, but gnaw his thumb[4] Until the marrow came? WE, not Clan-Boske, did the deed Whene’er we saw the foemen bleed. Behind thee, Oisin, may thy son A puling, whining chanter run, And bear white book and bell. His words I scorn--in open fight, Which of us twain is in the right Let swords, not speeches, tell.”