He clutched his sword in his left hand--
While round that hero of the band
The Fian warriors pressed, and praised
His valour ... Mute was Goll ... They raised,
Smiting their hands, the battle-cry,
To urge him on to victory.

The one-eyed Goll went forth alone,
His face was like a mountain stone,--
Cold, hard, and grey; his deep-drawn breath
Came heavily, like a man nigh death--
But his firm mouth, with lips drawn thin,
Deep sunken in his wrinkled skin,
Was cunningly crooked; his hair was white,
On his bald forehead gleamed a bright
And livid scar that Conn's great sire
Had cloven when their swords struck fire--
Burly and dauntless, full of might,
Old Goll went humbly forth to fight
With arrogant Conn ... It seemed The Red
In greater might was from the dead,
Restored in his fierce son ...

A deep
Swift silence fell, like sudden sleep,
On all the Fians waiting there
In sharp suspense and half despair ...
The morn was still. A skylark hung
In mid-air flutt'ring, and sung
A lullaby that grew more sweet