then making war on his father-in-law, Brian, King of Dublin. The Earl
and all his forces were cut to pieces, and Sigtryg was in danger of a
total defeat; but the enemy had a greater loss by the death of Brian,
their king, who fell in the action. On Christmas-day (the day of the
battle) a native of Caithness, in Scotland, saw, at a distance, a
number of persons on horseback riding full speed towards a hill, and
seeming to enter into it. Curiosity led him to follow them, till,
looking through an opening in the rocks, he saw twelve gigantic
figures,[3] resembling women: they were all employed about a loom; and
as they wove they sung the following dreadful song, which, when they
had finished, they tore the web into twelve pieces, and each taking
her portion, galloped six to the north, and as many to the south.

1 Now the storm begins to lower,
(Haste, the loom of Hell prepare!)
Iron-sleet of arrowy shower
Hurtles in the darken'd air.

2 Glittering lances are the loom
Where the dusky warp we strain,
Weaving many a soldier's doom,
Orkney's woe and Randver's bane.

3 See the grisly texture grow,
('Tis of human entrails made,)
And the weights that play below,
Each a gasping warrior's head.

4 Shafts for shuttles, dipp'd in gore,
Shoot the trembling cords along: