The bitter struggle lasted long, And many fell in death; Our smaller force still smaller grew On that dark fatal heath. Though Oscar’s sword—his friends oppressed— Was failing in its might, We saw him struggling fiercely on Amid the woful fight, Like a hawk darting on the birds That scattered in their flight! His course was like the rushing roll Of surges with their roar When winter storms have poured their force Upon the suffering shore. The Sunbeam of the battle rose— Finn’s standard we did know— Then slowly backward, foot by foot, Retired the treacherous foe— Scattered like sheep, and fall’n like leaves: The wild pursuit rolled on; And on that field of dread were we In silence left alone. And there lay Oscar bleeding much Upon the mournful plain; And every living Finian there Had friends among the slain. The bard Fergus is asked to relate to Finn how the Féinn fared in the conflict. In this part I follow a literal rendering of MacLauchlan’s, modified by Morley:— “Say, Bard of the Féinn of Erin, How fared the fight, Fergus, my son, In Gabhra’s fierce battle-day? say!” “The fight fared not well, son of Cumhal, From Gabhra come tidings of ruin, For Oscar the fearless is slain. The sons of Cailte were seven; They fell with the Féinn of Alvin. The youth of the Féinn are fallen, Are dead in their battle array. And dead on the field lies MacLuy, With six of the sons of thy sire. The young men of Alvin are fallen; The Féinn of Britain are fallen. And dead is the king’s son of Lochlin, Who hastened to war for our right— The king’s son with a heart ever open, And arm ever strong in the fight.” “Now, O Bard—my son’s son, my desire, My Oscar of him, Fergus, tell How he hewed at the helms ere he fell.”