"Tell me, O little sun-flower, which way shall I be going?" and as she spoke a small golden bee flew up from the heart of it, and up the hill to the left of her. So it is that from that day the dandelion is called am-Bèarnàn-Bhrighde. Still she hesitated. Then a sea-bird flew by her with a loud whistling cry. "Tell me, O eisireùn," she called, "which way shall I be going?" And at this the eisireùn swerved in its flight, and followed the golden bee, crying, "This way, O Bride, Bride, Bride, Bride, Bri-i-i-ide!" So it is that from that day the oyster-catcher has been called the Gille-Brighde, the Servant of St. Bridget. Then it was that Bride said this sian: Dia romham; Moire am dheaghuidh; 'S am Mac a thug Righ nan Dul! Mis' air do shlios, a Dhia, Is Dia ma'm luirg. Mac' 'oire, a's Righ nan Dul, A shoillseachadh gach ni dheth so, Le a ghras, mu'm choinneamh. God before me; The Virgin Mary after me; And the Son sent by the King of the Elements. I am to windward of thee, O God! And God on my footsteps. May the Son of Mary, King of the Elements, Reveal the meaning of each of these things Before me, through His grace. And as she ended she saw before her two quicken-trees, of which the boughs were interwrought so that they made an arch. Deep in the green foliage was a white merle that sang a wondrous sweet song. Above it the small branches were twisted into the shape of a wreath or crown, lovely with the sunlit rowan-clusters, from whose scarlet berries red drops as of blood fell. Before her flew a white dove, all aglow as with golden light. She followed, and passed beneath the quicken arch. Sweet was the song of the merle, that was then no more; sweet the green shadow of the rowans, that now grew straight as young pines. Sweet the far song in the sky, where the white dove flew against the sun. Bride looked, and her eyes were glad. Bonnie the blooming of the heather on the slopes of Dun-I. Iona lay green and gold, isled in her blue waters. From the sheiling of Dùvach, her father, rose a thin column of pale blue smoke. The collies, seeing her, barked loudly with welcoming joy. The bleating of the sheep, the lowing of the kye, the breath of the salt wind from the open sea beyond, the song of the flowing tide in the Sound beneath: dear the homing. With a strange light in her eyes she moved down through the heather and among the green bracken: white, wonderful, fair to see. THE FISHER OF MEN "But now I have grown nothing, being all, And the whole world weighs down upon my heart." Fergus and the Druid. When old Sine nic Leòid came back to the croft, after she had been to the burn at the edge of the green airidh, where she had washed the _claar_ that was for the potatoes at the peeling, she sat down before the peats.