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step-mother, and our own mother's sister, have been reduced to this unhappy condition."

"Are there any means," asked the wretched father, "by which you can ever be restored to your own forms again ? "

None," replied Fingula; "there is no man in existence able to effect that change, nor can it ever take place until a woman from the south, named Deocha, daughter of Ingri, the son of Black Hugh, and a man from the north, named Larigneau, the son of Colman, shall occasion our deliverance in the time of THE TAILGEAN,* when the Christian faith and charity shall come into Ireland."

When Lir and his attendants heard these words, they uttered three doleful cries.

"Are you satisfied,” said Lir, “ since you retain your speech and reason, to come and remain with us?

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"It is not in our power to do so,” replied Fingula, nor are we at liberty to commit ourselves to the hands of man, until what I have told you shall have come to pass. But in the mean time we possess our speech and our mental faculties as fully as ever, and are moreover endowed with one additional quality, which is that we can sing the most melodious airs that the world has ever heard, and there is no mortal that would not feel a pleasure in listening to our voices. Remain with us for this night, and you shall hear our music."

When Lir had heard these words, he ordered his

* Tailgean, or the Holy Offspring, a name supposed to have been applied by the Druids to St. Patrick, previous to his arrival in Ireland. — O'Brien's Irish Dictionary.

followers to unharness their steeds, and they remained during the whole night on the strand, listening to the music of the birds, until all were lulled to sleep by the enchanting melody, excepting Lir alone. In the morning Lir arose from the bank on which he lay, and addressed his children in the following words: —

In vain I stretch my aching limbs
And close my weeping eyes,

In vain my children's moonlight hymns
For me alone arise.

"T is morn again, on wave and strand,
My children, we must part;
A word that like a burning brand
Falls on your father's heart.

O had I seen this fatal hour,

When Lir's malignant queen
First sought his old paternal tower,
This hour had never been !

As thus between the shore and you

The widening waters grow,

So spreads my darkening spirits through
The sense of cureless woe.

Lir departed from the lake, and, still following the track of Aoife, came to the palace of the Ard-Righ, or Chief King, as Bogh Dearg was entitled. The monarch welcomed him, but complained of his not having brought his children as usual.

Alas, poor that I am!" said Lir, "it is not I who would keep my children from your sight, but Aoife yonder, once your darling, and the sister of their mother,

who has had them transformed into four swans, and abandoned them on the Lake of the Speckled Oak. They have been seen in that place by a great multitude of our people, who have heard the story from themselves, for they retain their speech and reason as before."

The monarch started at these words, and, looking on Aoife, immediately became convinced that Lir had spoken the truth. He began to upbraid his daughter in a rough and angry tone.

“Malicious as you were," said he, "you will suffer more by this cruel deed than the children of Lir, for they in the progress of time will be released from their sufferings, and their souls will be made happy in the end."

He then asked her into what shape of all living creatures she would least like to be transformed.

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Speak,” said he, “"for it is not in your power to avoid telling the truth.”

Aoife, thus constrained, replied with a horrible look and tone, that there was no form which she more abhorred than that of a Deamhain Eidhir, or Demon of the Air.

“That form, then," said the monarch, “shall soon be yours”; and while he said so, he took a magic collar and laid it on her. Immediately losing her own shape, she flew away, shrieking, in that of a foul Spirit of the Air, in which she continues to this day, and will to the end of time, according to her deserts.

Soon afterwards, the monarch and the Tuatha Danaans went to the Lake of the Speckled Oak and encamped upon its shores, listening to the music of the birds. The Sons of Mile, likewise, came thither from every part of

Ireland, and formed an encampment in the same place, for there never was music comparable to that of those swans. Sometimes they related their mournful story, sometimes they would answer the questions proposed to them by the people on shore, and talk familiarly with their relatives and friends, and at others they sung, both by day and night, the most delightful music that was ever heard by human ear; so that the listeners on shore, notwithstanding the grief and uneasiness in which they continued, enjoyed as sweet sleep, and arose as fresh and vigorous, as if they had been resting in their accustomed beds at home. The two multitudes of the Sons of Mile, and of the Tuatha Danaans, thus remained in their respective encampments during the space of thirty years. At the end of that time, Fingula addressed her brethren as follows:

66 'Are

you ignorant, my brothers, that but one night is left of the time which you were to spend upon the lake ?"

On hearing this, the three brethren grew very sorrowful, and uttered many plaintive cries and sounds of grief; for they were almost as happy on that lake, enjoying the company of their friends and relatives, talking with them and answering their questions, as they would have been in their own home; more especially, when compared to the grief they felt on leaving it for the wild and stormy sea that lies to the north of Ireland. Early in the morning they came as close to the brink of the lake as they could, and spoke to their father and their friends, to all of whom they bade a mournful farewell, repeating those pitiful lines that follow:

Receive, O royal sage, our last farewell,
Thou of the potent spell!

And thou, O Lir, deep skilled in mystic lore-
We meet—we meet no more!

The sum complete of our appointed hours,
We leave your happy bowers.

Farewell, dear friends, till time itself is o'er
We meet, we meet no more!

Forever now to human converse lost,

On Moyle's wild waters tost,

Our doom till day, and night, and seasons fail,
To weave a mournful tale.

Three lingering ages on the northern main
To waste in various pain.

Three lingering ages in the stormy west
To heave on ocean's breast.

Sad is our doom, dear friends, on wintry seas
Through many a year to freeze, —

Harsh brine and rocks, with horrid sea-weed brown
For Lir's soft beds of down!

No more the joy of Lir's paternal breast,
Early we part unblest!

A power unseen commands that we forsake

Lone Dairvreac's peaceful lake.

Rise from the wave, companions of my fear,
Rise, brethren dear!

Bright wave and pebbly beach and echoing dell,
Farewell, a last farewell!

And you, dear friends, who throng the leafy shore,
We meet - we meet no more!

Having ended those verses, the swans took wing and, arising lightly on the air, continued their flight until they

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