_The Death Of The Boar_

[Taken from "Leabhar na Feinne," and a prose version written down from oral recitation by J. Dewar.]

OSSIAN.

This vale of Peace, this glen close by, Where deer and elk would often cry, Of old saw the fleet-footed Fianti bound In the strath of the west as they followed the hound.

List if you wish to hear a lay Of gentle folks long passed away, Of him who was Prince; of Gulban's blue hill, And sorrow-cursed Diarmid's sad legend of ill.

AUDIENCE.

Loved Ossian, sweetest voiced, what day But sees us listeners to thy lay? Such strains from no birds of the shoreland can float, Though dawn give each leaf in the woodland a note.

OSSIAN.

My own good king was hunting gone, They whom no deerlike terror won, His Feinne, through the secret glens followed, and we Descended the slopes that lead down to the sea.

Then saw our own great king, whose word The Feinne, the brave, obeying heard, A nine folded shaving of wood brightly curled, Shining white, as to seaward the swift waters swirled.

He grasped it, scanning it, the coil Hid five feet and a span of soil; Then loudly he cried, "Ah, Diarmid is here, No swordsman of Cormac, but Diarmid is near!"

In truth, my own good king then swore To break his fast and drink no more, Until were unearthed the vile face of his foe, If the caves of all Erin should refuge bestow.

Our hounds we sent, and shouting went Where o'er the vales the branches bent; The wild-cat we chased from the glens, that the cheer And cries of our hunting might fall on his ear.

He who was never weak in fight Heard the loud voices strike the height; To Grinie he cried, "Though the hounds do not bay, I wait not their voice, to the hunt I'll away."

GRINIE.

O Diarmid! wait until they cry, That hunting shout is but a lie, Where grieves for his wife Cùall's son, there for thee Thou know'st thy peril for ever must be.