_Yo, eily-a-ho, ayah-a-ho, eily-ayah-a-ho,_
Singeth the Sword
_Eily-a-ho, ayah-a-ho, eily-ayah-a-ho,_
Of the Washer of the Ford!
And at that all ceased from rowing. Standing erect, they lifted up
their oars against the stars, and the wild voices of them flew out
upon the night--
_Yo, eily-a-ho, ayah-a-ho, eily-ayah-a-ho,_
Singeth the Sword
_Eily-a-ho, ayah-a-ho, eily-ayah-a-ho,_
Of the Washer of the Ford!
Torcall Dall laughed. Then he drew his sword from his side and
plunged it into the sea. When he drew the blade out of the water and
whirled it on high, all the white shining drops of it swirled about
his head like a sleety rain.
And at that the steersman let go the steering-oar and drew his sword,
and clove a flowing wave. But with the might of his blow the sword
spun him round, and the sword sliced away the ear of the man who had
the sternmost oar. Then there was blood in the eyes of all there. The
man staggered, and felt for his knife, and it was in the heart of the
steersman.
Then because these two men were leaders, and had had a blood-feud, and
because all there, save Torcall, were of one or the other side, swords
and knives sang a song.
The rowers dropped their oars; and four men fought against three.
Torcall laughed, and lay back in his place. While out of the wandering
wave the death of each man clambered into the hollow of the boat, and
breathed its chill upon its man, Torcall the Blind took his harp. He
sang this song, with the swirling spray against his face, and the
smell of blood in his nostrils, and the feet of him dabbling in the
red tide that rose there.
Oh, 'tis a good thing the red blood, by Odin his word!
And a good thing it is to hear it bubbling deep.
And when we hear the laughter of the Sword,
Oh, the corbies croak, and the old wail, and the women weep!
And busy will she be there where she stands,
Washing the red out of the sins of all this slaying horde;
And trampling the bones of them into white powdery sands,
And laughing low at the thirst of her thirsty sword--
The Washer of the Ford!
When he had sung that song there was only one man whose pulse still
beat, and he was at the bow.
"A bitter black curse upon you, Torcall Dall!" he groaned out of the
ooze of blood that was in his mouth.
"And who will you be?" said the Blind Harper.
"I am Fergus, the son of Art, the son of Fergus of the Dûns."
"Well, it is a song for your death I will make, Fergus mac Art mhic
Fheargus: and because you are the last."