The white cup of my cup-bearer, a shining gem,
will glitter before thee;
My golden finger-ring, my bracelets, treasures without
a flaw, King Nia Nar had brought them
over the sea.
Cailte's brooch, a pin with luck, it was one of his
marvellous treasures:
Two heads of silver round a head of gold, a goodly
piece, though small.
My draught-board—no mean treasure!—is thine;
take it with thee.
Noble blood drips on its rim, it lies not far hence.
Many a body of the spear-armed host lies here and
there around its crimson woof;
A dense bush of the ruddy oak-wood conceals it
by the side of the grave.
As thou carefully searchest for it thou shouldst
not speak much:
Earth never covered anything so marvellous.
One half of its pieces are yellow gold, the other
are white bronze;
Its woof is of pearls; it is the wonder of smiths
how it was wrought.
The bag for its pieces,—'tis a marvel of a story—
its rim is embroidered with gold;
The master-smith has left a lock upon it which no
ignorant person can open.
A four-cornered casket,—it is but tiny—made of
coils of red gold;
One hundred ounces of white bronze have been put
into it firmly.
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