“It is three times seven years as mortals count time since I brought you
to Tir-nan-oge, and in all that time I have never given you a gift.
To-day I will give you a gift.”
He brought out the Sword of Light and gave it to Lugh, and when Lugh
took it in his hand he remembered how he had cried to the hills and
rivers of Ireland, “Some day I will come back to you,” and he said to
Mananaan—
“I want to go back to Ireland.”
“You will not find joyousness there, O Lugh, or the music of harp
strings, or feasting. The De Danaanans are shorn of their strength.
Ogmai, their champion, carries logs to warm Fomorian hearths; Angus
wanders like an outcast; and Nuada, the King, has but one dun where
those who had once the lordship of the world meet in secret like hunted
folk.”
“I have a good sword,” said Lugh. “I will go to my kinsfolk.”
[Illustration: Lugh saying Farewell to the Irish Hills.]
“O Lugh,” said Mananaan, “they have never known you. Will you leave me
and Niav and this land where sorrow has never touched you, for the sake
of stranger kinsfolk?”