No runner could keep pace by Caoilte's side, And ere the Fians, following in his path, Had wended from the deep and dusky strath, He swept o'er Clyne, and heard the awesome owls That hoot afar and near in woody Foulis, And he had reached the slopes of fair Rosskeen Ere Finn by Fyrish came.

Garry turned From Finn in sullen silence, for he yearned To join the chase once more.

Then Finn to Caoilte spake, and gave command To hasten forth before the Fian band The King of Scouts was he!

The Queen Anne in it was no English queen, but, as I think, that Aine of the old gods at whose hill mad dogs were used to gather, and who turned to grey the yellow hair of Finn of the Fianna of Ireland.

The skies are jewelled all around, The ploughshare snaps in the iron ground, The Finn with face like paper And eyes like a lighted taper Hurls his rough rune At the wintry moon And stamps to mark the tune.