The Complete Works. William Butler Yeats

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      Ah! I remember I have heard you boast,

      When the ale was in your blood, that there was one

      In Scotland, where you had learnt the trade of war,

      That had a stone-pale cheek and red-brown hair.

      And that although you had loved other women,

      You’d sooner that fierce woman of the camp

      Bore you a son than any queen among them.

      CUCHULAIN.

      You call her a ‘fierce woman of the camp,’

      For having lived among the spinning-wheels,

      You’d have no woman near that would not say,

      ‘Ah! how wise!’ ‘What will you have for supper?’

      ‘What shall I wear that I may please you, sir?’

      And keep that humming through the day and night

      Forever. A fierce woman of the camp!

      But I am getting angry about nothing.

      You have never seen her. Ah! Conchubar, had you seen her

      With that high, laughing, turbulent head of hers

      Thrown backward, and the bow-string at her ear,

      Or sitting at the fire with those grave eyes

      Full of good counsel as it were with wine,

      Or when love ran through all the lineaments

      Of her wild body—although she had no child,

      None other had all beauty, queen, or lover,

      Or was so fitted to give birth to kings.

      CONCHUBAR.

      There’s nothing I can say but drifts you farther

      From the one weighty matter. That very woman—

      For I know well that you are praising Aoife—

      Now hates you and will leave no subtilty

      Unknotted that might run into a noose

      About your throat, no army in idleness

      That might bring ruin on this land you serve.

      CUCHULAIN.

      No wonder in that, no wonder at all in that.

      I never have known love but as a kiss

      In the mid-battle, and a difficult truce

      Of oil and water, candles and dark night,

      Hillside and hollow, the hot-footed sun,

      And the cold, sliding, slippery-footed moon—

      A brief forgiveness between opposites

      That have been hatreds for three times the age

      Of this long-’stablished ground.

      CONCHUBAR.

      Listen to me.

      Aoife makes war on us, and every day

      Our enemies grow greater and beat the walls

      More bitterly, and you within the walls

      Are every day more turbulent; and yet,

      When I would speak about these things, your fancy

      Runs as it were a swallow on the wind.

      [Outside the door in the blue light of the sea mist are many old and young KINGS; amongst them are three WOMEN, two of whom carry a bowl full of fire. The third, in what follows, puts from time to time fragrant herbs into the fire so that it flickers up into brighter flame.

      Look at the door and what men gather there—

      Old counsellors that steer the land with me,

      And younger kings, the dancers and harp-players

      That follow in your tumults, and all these

      Are held there by the one anxiety.

      Will you be bound into obedience

      And so make this land safe for them and theirs?

      You are but half a king and I but half;

      I need your might of hand and burning heart,

      And you my wisdom.

      CUCHULAIN.

       [Going near to door.]

      Nestlings of a high nest,

      Hawks that have followed me into the air

      And looked upon the sun, we’ll out of this

      And sail upon the wind once more. This king

      Would have me take an oath to do his will,

      And having listened to his tune from morning,

      I will no more of it. Run to the stable

      And set the horses to the chariot-pole,

      And send a messenger to the harp-players.

      We’ll find a level place among the woods,

      And dance awhile.

      A YOUNG KING.

      Cuchulain, take the oath.

      There is none here that would not have you take it.

      CUCHULAIN.

      You’d have me take it? Are you of one mind?

      THE KINGS.

      All, all, all, all!

      A YOUNG KING.

      Do what the High King bids you.

      CONCHUBAR.

      There is not one but dreads this turbulence

      Now that they’re settled men.

      CUCHULAIN.

      Are you so changed,

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