The colour (of her _dun_) is like the colour of 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 grianan the corner stones Are all of silver and of yellow gold, Its thatch in stripes of faultless order, Of wings of brown and crimson red. Crede seems to have been very well pleased with this song, for she married Cael. But, sad to tell, on being called away soon after to the battle of Finntraigh, he was there killed. His widowed partner gave vent to her grief in an elegy replete with interest, because it exhibits the Celtic characteristic of imputing to all nature—birds, deer, waves, and rocks, one’s own mournful feelings; and because it contains allusions to ancient customs. Her wail sounds like a Highland coronach of other days: “A woeful note, and O a woeful note is that which the thrush in Drumqueen emits, but not more cheerful is the wail which the blackbird makes in Letterlee. A woeful sound, and O a woeful sound is that the deer utters in Drumdaleish. Dead lies the doe of Drumsheelin, the mighty stag bells after her sore suffering, and O suffering sore is the hero’s death, his death, who used to lie by me. Sore suffering to me is Cael, and O Cael is a suffering sore, that by my side he is in dead man’s form; that the wave should have swept over his white body, that is what hath distracted me, so great was his delightfulness. A dismal roar, and O a dismal roar is that the shore’s surf makes upon the strand.... A woeful booming, and O a boom of woe is that which the wave makes upon the northward beach, butting as it does against the polished rock, lamenting for Cael, now that he is gone.”