My mourning is grievous this night,
Weeping is my condition,
As I think of the fierce fight,
Fought with red, squint-eyed Cairbre,
That son of Cormac O Chuinn;
Woe to them fell into his hands,
Hero who knew no coward fear,
Whose hand took delight in the arrow, etc.
The composition is very much the same with that of the Dean, but in
many portions contains lines which the latter wants, and in others is
comparatively defective. Although frequently superior in force, it is
not, upon the whole, so smooth and regular as the Dean’s edition. It
will be given at greater length in the Appendix to this volume.