On the Waters of Moyle

"Life is weary here,
Great the snowing here,
Night is dreary here,
Bleak the blowing here."

On a day, they saw a Fairy Cavalcade at the river Banna,
and were told that Lir and their friends were celebrating the
Feast of Age, happy but for their absence. Fionnuala made
this lay:

Gay this night Lir's royal house,
Chiefs carouse, mead flows amain:
Cold this night his children roam,
Their chill home the icy main.

For our mantles fair are found
Feathers curving round our breasts:
Often silken robes we had,
Purple-clad, we sat at feasts.

For our viands here and wine —
Bitter brine and pallid sands:
Of the hazel mead they served
In carved vessels to our hands.

Now our beds are the bare rock
Smit with shock of heavy seas:
Often soft breast-down was spread
For the bed of grateful ease.

Though 'tis now, in frost, our toil
To swim Moyle, with drooping wings:
Oft we rode as Royal Wards
And our guards were sons of Kings.