SADDLE and ride, I heard a man say,
Out of Ben Bulben and Knocknarea,
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All those tragic characters ride
But turn from Rosses’ crawling tide,
The meet’s upon the mountain-side.
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What brought them there so far from their home.
Cuchulain that fought night long with the foam,
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Niamh that rode on it; lad and lass
That sat so still and played at the chess?
What but heroic wantonness?
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Aleel, his Countess; Hanrahan
That seemed but a wild wenching man;
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And all alone comes riding there
The King that could make his people stare,
Because he had feathers instead of hair.
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