for his guest to provide.”

“Swifter than wind?” Finn cried.
“The vigour of woman,” the damsel replied.

“Sweeter than honey?” Finn cried.
“The words of affection,” the damsel replied.

“Ranker than bane?” Finn cried.
“A foeman’s abuse,” the damsel replied.

“More black than the crow?” Finn cried.
“Death is yet blacker,” the damsel replied.

“More sharp than the sword?” Finn cried.
“Woman’s sense at a pinch,” the damsel replied.

“What’s best of all gems?” Finn cried.
“A knife or a dirk,” the damsel replied.

“Softer than down?” Finn cried.
“Love’s palm on your cheek,” the damsel replied.

“A ship for all cargoes?” Finn cried.
“The tongs of the smith,” the damsel replied.

“Whiter than snow?” Finn cried.
“Truth is more white,” the damsel replied.

“How many trees are there?” Finn cried.
“The green and the sere make two,” she replied.

“What’s reddest of red?” Finn cried.
“The flush of the freeman when praised,” she replied.
“Or when praise to his merit is meanly denied.”

“Than the radish more brittle?” Finn cried.
“The nature of woman,” the damsel replied.

“What never grows old nor betied?”
“The friendship of man,” the damsel replied.

“What does woman love best?” Finn cried.
“A fair or a dance,” the damsel replied.

“What’s best for your colour?” Finn cried.
“Cool air and good sleep,” the damsel replied.

“How many steeds are there?” Finn cried,
“But two, a horse and a mare,” she replied.

“What’s best of all food?” Finn cried,
“Nought better than milk,” the damsel replied.

“What adorns a man most?” Finn cried,
“High deeds, humble words,” the damsel replied.

“The worst of all fare?” Finn cried.
“Strong drink, if it be too freely supplied,
Or the prate of a fool,” the damsel replied.

EPIGRAMS BY CAROLAN

On Friars

Would’st thou on good terms with friars live,
   Ever be humble and admiring;
All they ask of thee freely give,
   And in return be nought requiring.

On a surly Butler,
who had refused him admission to the cellar

O Dermod Flynn it grieveth me
   Thou keepest not Hell’s portal;
As long as thou should’st porter be,
   Thou would’st admit no mortal.

Lines

How deadly the blow I received
When of thee, O my darling, bereaved!
No more up the hill I shall bound,
No strength in my poor foot is found;
No joy o’er my visage shall break
’Till from out the cold earth I awake.
Of the corn like the very top grain,
Or the pine ’mongst the shrubs of the plain,
Or the moon ’mongst the starlets above,
Went thou amongst women, my love!

* * * * *

London:
Printed for Thomas J. Wise, Hampstead, N.W.
Edition limited to Thirty Copies

Footnote:

[13]  Vidrik’s sword.

***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ULF VAN