"It is to ask you in marriage we are come," said Finn.
"Who is it is asking for me?" said she. "It is Cael, the hundred-killer,
grandson of Nemhnain, son of the King of Leinster in the east." "I have
heard talk of him, but I have never seen him," said Credhe. "And has he
any poem for me?" she said. "I have that," said Cael, and he rose up
then and sang his poem:
"A journey I have to make, and it is no easy journey, to the house of
Credhe against the breast of the mountain, at the Paps of Dana; it is
there I must be going through hardships for the length of seven days. It
is pleasant her house is, with men and boys and women, with Druids and
musicians, with cup-bearer and door-keeper, with horse-boy that does not
leave his work, with distributer to share food; and Credhe of the Fair
Hair having command over them all.
"It would be delightful to me in her dun, with coverings and with down,
if she has but a mind to listen to me.
"A bowl she has with juice of berries in it to make her eyebrows black;
crystal vats of fermenting grain; beautiful cups and vessels. Her house
is of the colour of lime; there are rushes for beds, and many silken
coverings and blue cloaks; red gold is there, and bright drinking-horns.
Her sunny house is beside Loch Cuire, made of silver and yellow gold;
its ridge is thatched without any fault, with the crimson wings of
birds. The doorposts are green, the lintel is of silver taken in battle.
Credhe's chair on the left is the delight of delights, covered with gold
of Elga; at the foot of the pleasant bed it is, the bed that was made of
precious stones by Tuile in the east.
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