lunder of the Irish religious schools.

Though the personalities of this age do not stand forth with the high
relief of Cuculain and Concobar, though we can hardly quote poems to
equal the songs of Find son of Cumal and Ossin of the golden tongue, yet
genuine inspiration never failed in the hearts of the warriors and on
the lips of the bards. Thus in 860 did a poet lament the death of
a king:

"Mournfully is spread her veil of grief over Erin
Since Maelseaclain, chieftain of our race has perished,--
Maelseaclain of the flowing Shannon.
Many a moan resounds in every place;
It is mournful news among the Gael.

Red wine has been spilled into the valley:
Erin's monarch has died.
Though he was wont to ride a white charger.
Though he had many steeds,
His car this day is drawn by a yoke of oxen.
The king of Erin is dead."

Four years afterwards the contest between the raiders and the chieftains
grew keener, more centered, more like organized war. "A complete muster
of the North was made by Aed Finnliat, so that he plundered the
fortresses of the foreigners, wherever they were in the north; and he
carried off their cattle and accoutrements, their goods and chattels.
The foreigners of the province came together at Lough Foyle. After Aed
king of Ireland had heard that this gathering of strangers was on the
borders of his country, he was not negligent in attending to them. For
he marched towards them with all his forces, and a battle was fought
fiercely and spiritedly between them. The victory was gained over the
foreigners, and a slaughter was made of them. Their heads were collected
to one place, in the presence of the king, and twelve-score heads were
reckoned before him, which was the number slain in that battle, besides
the numbers of those who were wounded and carried off by him in the
agonies of death, and who died of their wounds some time afterwards."

A renewal of tribal warfare in the second year after this, when this
same Aed the king was attacked by Flann the lord of Breag in Meath,
called forth certain battle-verses full of the fire and fervor of
the time.

A poet sang:

"At Kiladerry this day the ravens shall taste sips of blood:
A victory shall be gained over the magic host of the Gentiles
and over Flann."

The mother of Flann sang:

"Happiness! Woe! Good news! Bad news! The gaining of a great
triumphant battle.