son of Moray, wield thy steel. Would
that I fell with thee! that my death
came from the hand of Dermid!

They fought by the brook of the
mountain; by the streams of Branno.
Blood tinged the silvery stream, and
crudled round the mossy stones. Dermid
the graceful fell; fell, and smiled in
death.

And fallest thou, son of Morny;
fallest, thou by Oscur's hand! Dermid
invincible in war, thus do I see thee fall!
--He went, and returned to the maid
whom he loved; returned, but she perceived
his grief.

Why that gloom, son of Oscian?
what shades thy mighty soul?

Though once renowned for the bow,
O maid, I have lost my fame. Fixed on
a tree by the brook of the hill, is the
shield of Gormur the brave, whom in
battle I slew. I have wasted the day
in vain, nor could my arrow pierce it.

Let me try, son Oscian, the skill
of Dargo's daughter. My hands were