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146 CELTIC POETRY.
When lances uplift The foe in the field. Noting the Norsemen Out on the water-throng, Hark ! how the Eagle Vaunts to the Vulture. Spread the wing, Scald-Neck, Says she, and screams she ; Seest thou the Sea-Kings Borne on the gannet-bath, Going to garner Every bird's eyrie ? Fell from her fishy-perch Answers the Bald-Beak, Scream no more, little o*ne, Feeders are coming. Hearkening their colloquy, Grins the grey beast, The wolf on the wold. This is my sentence : These are the Norseman's Pandect and canon. Thyrfing is thirsty ; Quern-biter hungers ; Shield-walker wearieth Shut in the scabbard. This is my sentence : Bring us to battle.
Perhaps, however, the greatest strength in Congal will be found in the dealing with the apparitions, the gigantic and malign demons, who haunt the hill and the stream, and represent the primitive imagin-