Fand's Welcome to Cuchulainn

Stately stands the Charioteer,
Beardless, young, who hasteth here;
Splendid o'er the plain he speeds
His careering chariot steeds!

Not to him soft strains are good,
Riding, red with battle blood;
Than loud car that rushing reels
Louder whirr his whirling wheels.

At sight of those steeds, fleeing,
I stand still, silent, seeing:
Never hoofs like these shall ring
Rapid as the winds of Spring!

Fifty apples of fair gold
Glitter o'er his mantle's fold;
Never king, on sea or strand,
Won their like, by battle brand.

On his cheeks four dimples be:
One is gray as shallow sea,
One purple pale, one like blood,
Brown is one as forest flood.

In his eyes shine seven rays,
Not forgot in poet's praise;
Brown his eye-brows' noble track,
Long his lashes, chafer black.

His high head, what head so good? —
Erinn knows it, hill and wood —
Doth three waves of colour hold,
Brown, blood-red, and crowning gold.

Crimsoned is his cleaving blade,
Bright the hilt of silver made;
Golden bosses gem the shield
White-rimmed, radiant o'er the field!

Foremost he in van of war,
Flashing first where dangers are:
There is none who bears a brand
Can with true Cuchulainn stand.

Cuchulainn comes to greet us!
Murtemni's chief to meet us! —
They who bring him from afar
Daughters of Aed Abrat are.

Blood drips from his lofty lance,
In his glance gleams battle fire;
Haughty, high, the victor goes
Woe to those who wake his ire.