IV. THE FORETELLINGa
Joseph Dunn translation
IV. THE FORETELLINGa
"Good now,
"Tell, O Fedelm, prophet-maid, How beholdest thou our host?"
"Crimson-red from blood they are; I behold them bathed in red!"
"Tell, O Fedelm, prophet-maid, How beholdest thou our host?" "Crimson-red from blood they are; I behold them bathed in red!"
W. 233.
"Tell, O Fedelm, prophet-maid, How beholdest thou our host?" "Crimson-red from blood they are; I behold them bathed in red!"
"Eogan, Durthacht's son, is in Rath Airthir ('the Eastern Rath') in his 'Pains.' Thither went my messengers. Naught need we dread from Ulster's men. But speak truth, O Fedelm:—
"Tell, O Fedelm, prophet-maid, How beholdest thou our host?" "Crimson-red from blood they are; I behold them bathed in red!"
"Tell, O Fedelm, prophet-maid, How beholdest thou our host?" "Crimson-red from blood they are; I behold them bathed in red!"
"Tell, O Fedelm, prophet-maid, How beholdest thou our host?" "Crimson-red from blood they are; I behold them bathed in red!"
Therewith she began to prophesy and to foretell the coming of Cuchulain to the men of Erin, and she chanted a lay:—
W. 255.
Wounded sore is his fair skin;
On his brow shines hero's light;
Victory's seat is in his face!
"Seven gems of champions brave Deck the centre of his orbs; Naked are the spears he bears, And he hooks a red cloak round!
"Noblest face is his, I see; He respects all womankind. Young the lad and fresh his hue, With a dragon's form in fight!
"I know not who is the Hound,
But I know full well this host
Will be smitten red by him!
"Four small swords—a brilliant feat— He supports in either hand; These he'll ply upon the host, Each to do its special deed!
With his sword and javelin.
Lo, the man in red cloak girt
Sets his foot on every hill!
He casts forth in orgy wild.
And his form I saw till now
Well I know will change its guise!
"On to battle now he comes; If ye watch not, ye are doomed. This is he seeks ye in fight Brave Cuchulain, Sualtaim's son!
"All your host he'll smite in twain, Till he works your utter ruin. All your heads ye'll leave with him. Fedelm, prophet-maid, hides not!
W. 291.
LL. fo. 56b.
"Gore shall flow from warriors' wounds;
Long 'twill live in memory.
Bodies hacked and wives in tears,