THE LAY OF THE HEADS.

The Bard returns to a stricken house:
What shape is that he rears on high?
A withe of the Willow, set round with Heads:
They blot that evening sky.

A Widow meets him at the gates:
What fixes thus that Widow's eye?
She names the name; but she sees not the man,
Nor beyond him that reddening sky.

"Bard of the Brand, thou Foster-Sire
Of him they slew--their friend--my lord -
What Head is that--the first--that frowns
Like a traitor self-abhorred?"

"Daughter of Orgill wounded sore,
Thou of the fateful eye serene,
Fergus is he. The feast he made
That snared thy Cuchullene."

"What Head is that--the next--half-hid
In curls full lustrous to behold?
They mind me of a hand that once
I saw amid their gold."

"'Tis Manadh. He that by the shore
Held rule, and named the waves his steeds: