Woman, bathe this head of mine: long since it parted with the Fian of Finn: this year and five, a long space, it has had no woman to bathe it.
This night sixteen years agone, happy was I with my fine head of hair: hard to know in it that head since it lost its wave-yellow torch-flame.
Ah, me! that is the poor head that hounds used to raise their hound-cry round: if it was the day on Leitir Lon, it would have women to bathe it.
Its outing to Leitir Lon—an outing on which great spoils used to be taken—when we killed brown stags above the brink of Loch Liathdroma.
An argument we had over there, I and light-footed Caoilte, when we divided the pleasant chase through quarrel and contention.
Darling Caoilte said—a man that was no shirker of combat, that excelled in bestowing cow and horse—that he was the greater champion.
I said he spoke untruly, the true prince,—it is no falsehood: though it fell out that I said so, dear Caoilte was indeed my friend.
Caoilte went to Ceann Con, I go to Leitir Lon: Caoilte with his fortunate folk, and I my lief alone.
Caoilte of the battles did not kill that day with his swift shooting—the man that often won fame—but one doe and one stag.
I vow to you, woman—it is no time for me to tell lies—that there came out with me over the plain thrice fifty fierce stags.
By thy hand, young woman, the cooking of Formaoil profited: thrice fifty stately stags in this place, with fifty pigs thrown in.
My shooting on Leitir Laoigh was not the tender shooting of a stripling: thrice fifty deer on the field, with the threescore wild pigs.
The hound I held in my active land—Gaillfheith, Fionn mac Cumhaill's hound—there never touched the warm earth a hound that could win the day from Gaillfheith.
The small spear I had in my hand—seven rivets holding it—often had my hand been on its shaft, along the slope it was not unsteady.
A good spear was Fionn's spear: there was great venom in its steel-blue point: anyone whose blood it ever let never tasted food in his life again.
If it were that day, woman, to come to me above any man, thou wouldst wash my two hands, thou wouldst not avoid me.
It is a pity thou didst not do this for me, thou quiet, fair-haired girl, to lay my head on the cold pile of stone, and to wash for burial my poor bald pate.
Fine was the beauty of the fair hair that all men saw on my head: it has left me for good and all, till I am a diseasesmitten grey-face.
Fine was the lustre of my hair, it was a fine setting for a body: never came through head's bone hair so good but the hair of Fionn.
Aye, and these teeth up here, away up in the old head, they were once on a time that they would crunch yellow-topt nuts.
They could gnaw a stag's haunch, hard and hungry and hound-like: they would not leave joint or jot of it but they would make mince-meat of.
Aye, and these eyes up here, away up in the old head, though they are roots of blood to-night, they were once thin pearly gems.
On a night of dark blind weather, they would not cause a stray step: to-night, though I should look out, I cannot see the fair.
Aye, and these legs below, nothing could have wearied them: tonight they are bowed and bent, pitiful, shrunken-sided.
Though they are without power or vigour—I cannot even turn them—they were swift on a time to follow the phantom of Fionnmhagh.
The phantom of Fionnmhagh or Magh Maoin, we got a turn of his ill-nature: on Sunday he was on the plain of Meath, when Cormac took . . . .
The Fiana ran towards him, sure they were that they would overtake the phantom: they did not overtake him, though fierce their effort, except Oisin in Argadros.
The poor Oisin thou seest here, he encountered great harm and hardship, following the phantom southwards to cold Bearnan of edge-feats.
There he leapt a bold leap, highly, terribly, outlandishly, and he reached its arm with swiftness, up in the air he struck it.
I dealt a brave and hardy blow over its hideous clammy arm: I smote, without scarcity, on the eastward, the gold from its paw into the shield.
The little shield that was on my arm, over which I hewed the monster's paw, even had it desired the gold, it would have had it in its middle.
Ten rings in it of gold for Fionn, and ten for Croibhfinn, ten of them for Goll's daughter, and ten for the daughter of Iorgholl.
The reckoning of its gold from that out, besides gold that was hidden, even a seer does not know, for the greatness of its treasures.
I know ten hiding-places of Fionn's of treasures that I remember: pity they should be under the warm earth, each hiding-place having ten treasures.
His handsome drinking-horns are these, beside the pillar-stone of Carn Aodha: on the hillock hitherward from it he hid ten garments.
Beneath it are hunting spears wherewith red-headed stags were wounded: dear was the hero's hand that grasped them, meetly the stone of Almhain hath covered it.
Goblets that held the ale are there, beside the waterfall of Modhorn: let whoso seek them might and main, they shall not be found till the end of all.
These and the other treasures of Fionn, above all men might I reveal: I know no treasure of them all without its mounting of white bronze.
All we get in the lasting world, they would be numerous to recount: all that we laid in peopled earth will not be found till doom, woman.
I am left behind all these—it is right to thank the Lord for it—without vigour, without power while I live, at the back of Cionaodh's fortress.
Patrick's baptism is better for me than the deceitful bathing of women, protecting churches and peoples and habitations: if God permits it, do it, woman.
This night sixteen years agone, happy was I with my fine head of hair: hard to know in it that head since it lost its wave-yellow torch-flame.
Ah, me! that is the poor head that hounds used to raise their hound-cry round: if it was the day on Leitir Lon, it would have women to bathe it.
Its outing to Leitir Lon—an outing on which great spoils used to be taken—when we killed brown stags above the brink of Loch Liathdroma.
An argument we had over there, I and light-footed Caoilte, when we divided the pleasant chase through quarrel and contention.
Darling Caoilte said—a man that was no shirker of combat, that excelled in bestowing cow and horse—that he was the greater champion.
I said he spoke untruly, the true prince,—it is no falsehood: though it fell out that I said so, dear Caoilte was indeed my friend.
Caoilte went to Ceann Con, I go to Leitir Lon: Caoilte with his fortunate folk, and I my lief alone.
Caoilte of the battles did not kill that day with his swift shooting—the man that often won fame—but one doe and one stag.
I vow to you, woman—it is no time for me to tell lies—that there came out with me over the plain thrice fifty fierce stags.
By thy hand, young woman, the cooking of Formaoil profited: thrice fifty stately stags in this place, with fifty pigs thrown in.
My shooting on Leitir Laoigh was not the tender shooting of a stripling: thrice fifty deer on the field, with the threescore wild pigs.
The hound I held in my active land—Gaillfheith, Fionn mac Cumhaill's hound—there never touched the warm earth a hound that could win the day from Gaillfheith.
The small spear I had in my hand—seven rivets holding it—often had my hand been on its shaft, along the slope it was not unsteady.
A good spear was Fionn's spear: there was great venom in its steel-blue point: anyone whose blood it ever let never tasted food in his life again.
If it were that day, woman, to come to me above any man, thou wouldst wash my two hands, thou wouldst not avoid me.
It is a pity thou didst not do this for me, thou quiet, fair-haired girl, to lay my head on the cold pile of stone, and to wash for burial my poor bald pate.
Fine was the beauty of the fair hair that all men saw on my head: it has left me for good and all, till I am a diseasesmitten grey-face.
Fine was the lustre of my hair, it was a fine setting for a body: never came through head's bone hair so good but the hair of Fionn.
Aye, and these teeth up here, away up in the old head, they were once on a time that they would crunch yellow-topt nuts.
They could gnaw a stag's haunch, hard and hungry and hound-like: they would not leave joint or jot of it but they would make mince-meat of.
Aye, and these eyes up here, away up in the old head, though they are roots of blood to-night, they were once thin pearly gems.
On a night of dark blind weather, they would not cause a stray step: to-night, though I should look out, I cannot see the fair.
Aye, and these legs below, nothing could have wearied them: tonight they are bowed and bent, pitiful, shrunken-sided.
Though they are without power or vigour—I cannot even turn them—they were swift on a time to follow the phantom of Fionnmhagh.
The phantom of Fionnmhagh or Magh Maoin, we got a turn of his ill-nature: on Sunday he was on the plain of Meath, when Cormac took . . . .
The Fiana ran towards him, sure they were that they would overtake the phantom: they did not overtake him, though fierce their effort, except Oisin in Argadros.
The poor Oisin thou seest here, he encountered great harm and hardship, following the phantom southwards to cold Bearnan of edge-feats.
There he leapt a bold leap, highly, terribly, outlandishly, and he reached its arm with swiftness, up in the air he struck it.
I dealt a brave and hardy blow over its hideous clammy arm: I smote, without scarcity, on the eastward, the gold from its paw into the shield.
The little shield that was on my arm, over which I hewed the monster's paw, even had it desired the gold, it would have had it in its middle.
Ten rings in it of gold for Fionn, and ten for Croibhfinn, ten of them for Goll's daughter, and ten for the daughter of Iorgholl.
The reckoning of its gold from that out, besides gold that was hidden, even a seer does not know, for the greatness of its treasures.
I know ten hiding-places of Fionn's of treasures that I remember: pity they should be under the warm earth, each hiding-place having ten treasures.
His handsome drinking-horns are these, beside the pillar-stone of Carn Aodha: on the hillock hitherward from it he hid ten garments.
Beneath it are hunting spears wherewith red-headed stags were wounded: dear was the hero's hand that grasped them, meetly the stone of Almhain hath covered it.
Goblets that held the ale are there, beside the waterfall of Modhorn: let whoso seek them might and main, they shall not be found till the end of all.
These and the other treasures of Fionn, above all men might I reveal: I know no treasure of them all without its mounting of white bronze.
All we get in the lasting world, they would be numerous to recount: all that we laid in peopled earth will not be found till doom, woman.
I am left behind all these—it is right to thank the Lord for it—without vigour, without power while I live, at the back of Cionaodh's fortress.
Patrick's baptism is better for me than the deceitful bathing of women, protecting churches and peoples and habitations: if God permits it, do it, woman.