THE FATE OF THE THREE SONS OF UISNEACH AND DEIRDRÉ, DAUGHTER OF FEILIM.
Woe to thee, daughter of Feilim! woe to thee, Deirdré,
Slain for thy sake were the three sons of Uisneach, and red
Grew the broad plains of Ulster, on Connaught unnumbered the dead.
Woe to thee, Deirdré!—Deirdré, daughter of Feilim.
Smiled the sweet babe in the face of the Druid and his warning.
Held her young mouth for his kissing, and wept at his scorning.
‘King Connor, there's woe for thy pity, this woman-child born.
This bud of sweet promise will wound herself red with her thorn.
O King, in the future I prophesy evil before thee.
With the life of this child. Wilt thou listen and heed to my story?
