Red Man

I have not come for your hurt, I'm the Rector of this land, And with my spitting cat-heads, my frenzied moon-bred band, Age after age I sift it, and choose for its championship The man who hits my fancy.

[He places the Helmet on CUCHULAIN'S head]

And I choose the laughing lip That shall not turn from laughing whatever rise or fall, The heart that grows no bitterer although betrayed by all; The hand that loves to scatter; the life like a gambler's throw; And these things I make prosper, till a day come that I know, When heart and mind shall darken that the weak may end the strong, And the long remembering harpers have matter for their song.