Heroic Romances of Ireland Part 18

Then that servant of Ferdia arose, and he placed his hand upon his lord: "Arise now, O Ferdia!" said the servant, "for here they come towards thee, even to the Ford;" and this was the speech of the driver of the chariot of Ferdia as he stood before him:

Lo! a chariot yoked with silver, creaking loud, draws nigh;[FN#53]

O'er the chariot-wheels a man his perfect form rears high: The warlike car Rolls on from far Braeg Ross, from Braina's bounds; Past that burg they ride whose wooded side the roadway rounds; For its triumphs high in triumph cry its song resounds.

[FN#53] For a literal translation of the above poem and another rendering, see the notes.

Urged by hero-Hound, and yoked by charioteer's hand true, Flies the war-car southward ever; n.o.bler hawk ne'er flew Than he who speeds His rushing steeds, That chief of stubborn might; Soon the blood to flow from slaughtered foe shall meet his sight; Sure for us 'tis ill, for soon with skill he gives us fight.

Woe to him who here on hillock stands, that Hound to wait; Emain Macha's perfect Hound is he, foretold by fate: Last year I cried That him I spied Who guards his land from foe: That battle-Hound, on whom are found all hues to glow: 'Twas then from far I heard that car: its sound I know.

"O my servant!" said Ferdia, "wherefore is it: that thou hast continued in thy praise of this man ever since the time that I left my tent?

surely it must be a reward that thou seekest at his hand, so greatly dost thou extol him; yet Ailill and Maev have foretold that it is by me he shall fall. Certain it is that for sake of the fee I shall gain he shall be slain quickly; and 'tis full time that the relief that we wait for should come." Thus then it was that in that place he spoke these words, and thus did his servant reply:

Ferdia

'Tis time that I grant my a.s.sistance!

Be still: let thy praise of him sink: Peer not, like a seer, at the distance; Wilt fail me on battle-field's brink?

Though Cualgne's proud champion, displaying His gambols and pride thou dost see; Full soon shalt thou witness his slaying For price to be paid down to me.

Servant

If he who this glory is showing Be champion of Cualgne indeed; 'Tis not in retreat he is going; To meet us he cometh with speed: He comes, nor 'tis slowly he blunders, Like wind his swift journey he makes; As stream, from the cliff-top that thunders; As bolt, from the storm-cloud that breaks.

Ferdia

'Tis pay at his hand thou hast taken, So loudly resoundeth thy praise; Else why, since our tent was forsaken, Hast sung with such frequence thy lays?

Men, like thou, who, when foes are appearing, Would to chant the foe's praises begin, Will attack not, when battle is nearing, But the name of base cowards shall win.

Now the charioteer of Ferdia was not long in that place before he saw a marvellous sight; for before his eyes came the beautiful five-pointed, four-peaked chariot, skilfully driven with swiftness and power. A canopy of green overspread it; thin and well-seasoned was the body of it; lofty and long were the spears that adorned it; well was it fashioned for war. Under the yokes of that chariot sped forward with great bounds two great-eared, savage, and prancing steeds; bellies had they like whales, broad were their chests, and quick-panting their hearts; their flanks were high, and their hoofs wide; their pasterns fine, their loins broad, and their spirits untamable. The horse under one of the yokes was grey, with a long mane and with broad hind quarters; swiftly he galloped, and his leaps were great; the horse beneath the other yoke was black, his mane was in tufts, his back was broad, and eager was his pace. As a hawk, on a day when the wind bloweth hard, darts up from the furrow; as the gusts of the wind in spring sweep forward over a smooth plain upon a day in March; swift as a going stag at the beginning of the chase, after he hath been roused by the cry of the hounds; such was the pace of the two steeds that bore forward Cuchulain and his chariot, touching upon the soil as rapidly as if the stones that they trod on were hot with the fire, so that the whole earth trembled and shook at the violence of their going. And Cuchulain reached the ford, and Ferdia awaited him on the south side of it, and Cuchulain halted his horses upon the north.

Then did Ferdia bid welcome to Cuchulain: "O Cuchulain!" said Ferdia, I rejoice to see thine approach." "Thy welcome would have been received by me upon an earlier day," said Cuchulain, "but this day I cannot receive it as one from a friend. And Ferdia," said he, "it were more suitable that it was I who bade welcome to thee rather than that thou shouldest welcome me; for out in flight before thee are my women, and my children; my youths, and my steeds, and my mares; my flocks, and my herds, and my cattle." "Ah, Cuchulain!" said Ferdia, "how hast thou been persuaded to come to this fight and this battle at all? For when we were with Scathach, with Uathach, and with Aife, thou wert mine attendant; thine was the office to whet my spears, and to make ready my couch." "'Tis true indeed," said Cuchulain, "but it was then as thy younger in years and in standing that it was my custom to perform this office for thee; and that is not my quality to-day; for now there is not in all the world any champion with whom I would refuse to fight."

And then each of them reproached the other bitterly with breach of friendship, and there Ferdia spoke the words which here follow, and thus did Cuchulain reply:

Ferdia

Hound! why hither faring,[FN#54]

Strife with strong ones daring?

As if home were flaring, Woe shall come on thee!

Blood from out thee draining Shall thy steeds be staining; Thou, thy home if gaining, Wounded sore shalt be.

[FN#54] The metre is that of the Irish.

Cuchulain

Hot with indignation, Take I battle-station, Face yon warrior nation, Round their warlike king: They shall see me meet thee, Count the strifes that greet thee, Watch, as down I beat thee, Drowning, suffering.

Ferdia

Here is one to shame thee; How 'twas I o'ercame thee, They who champion name thee Long the tale shall tell.

Ulster, near thee lying, Soon shall see thee dying; All shall say, with sighing, Theirs the chief who fell.

Cuchulain

Thine shall be the choosing; Say, what warfare using Hosts shall see thee losing At the Ford this fight?

Swords dost choose, hard-clashing Cars, in conflict crashing?

Spears, thy life-blood splashing?

'Tis thy death in sight.

Ferdia

Ere the twilight gleameth, Red thy life-blood streameth: Small thy stature seemeth, Like a cliff thy foe.

Ulster's hosts who prated, And thy pride inflated; Through them feel thy hated Spectre sadly go.

Cuchulain

Down a chasm appalling Thou to death art falling; One thy foe: yet galling Weapons press thee sore.

Proud thou wert but lately, Strife shall change thee greatly, Thee as champion stately Earth shall know no more.

Ferdia

Cease this endless vaunting, Speech for ever flaunting, Thou a chief! a taunting, Giggling child thou art.

None would pay, or fee thee, I as coward see thee; Strength hast none to free thee, Caged bird! quaking heart!

Cuchulain

Ah! in bygone story We, as peers in glory, Sports and combats gory Shared when Scaha taught: Thou, of all who nearest To my soul appearest!

Clansman! kinsman dearest!

Woe thy fate hath brought!

Ferdia