The years went by, one after the other, and by tens and by scores, and still Lir and Bove Derg and the Dedannans and Milesians dwelled by the shores of Lake Darvra. For never in the world’s history has there been chronicle of so sweet a singing as that of the four children of Lir. All day the swans discoursed lovingly with their father and Bove Derg, and their kith and kin, and all who sought them; and each night they sang their slow, sweet, fairy music--a music so wonderful and passing sweet, that all who listed to it forgot weariness and pain and bitter memories and the burden of years, and fell into a deep restful slumber, whence they awoke each morrow as though they had drunken overnight of the Fountain of Youth. The hair of Lir and Bove Derg was long and white, and almost had the Dedannans and the Milesians forgotten their ancient enmity, when a day of the days came whereon Fionula called aside her three brothers. “Dear brothers,” she said, as she looked sadly at the three beautiful white swans, and at the four drifting shadow-swans in the depths of the lake, “dear brothers, do you know that the time has come when we must put away our happiness as a dream that has been dreamed? For now the three hundred years of our sojourn here are at an end, and at dawn to-morrow we must arise and wing our sad flight across the dear lands of Erin, till we come to the wild and stormy waters of the sea-stream of the Moyle.” Aed and Fiachra and Conn made so loud and bitter lamentation at this that all heard, and soon the whole host that was encamped there filled the region with long keening cries of grief, and a sorrowful mourning strain as of the melancholy wind among the hills. But once more all were soothed that night into deep slumber and happy peace, because of the slow, sweet, fairy music of the chanting swans. At dawn, the four swans arose, and with their white pinions circled high above the lake, glittering as they soared into the sunflood as it swept across the summits of the eastern hills. “Farewell! farewell! farewell!” they chanted, and at that sad sound all the Dedannan host and all the Milesians, headed by Lir and Bove Derg, kneeled along the lake pastures and amid the reeds and sedges. Then Fionula, as she and her brothers slowly descended in wide-sweeping curves, sang this song: “Farewell! Farewell! Farewell! Far hence we lost ones go: Hearken our knell, Hearken our woe! Farewell! Farewell! Farewell! With breaking hearts we flee: For none can tell Our wild home on the sea. For ages on the Moyle, In loneliness and pain, Our feet shall tread no soil, Wild wave, wild wind, wild rain. For ages in the west, Fierce storms and fiercer cold Shall be alone our rest, While ye grow old. Let not our memories pass, O ye who stay behind-- Who are as the grass And we the wind.