For it is of a coil of firm red gold, Dinoll the goldsmith
brought it over the sea;
Even one of its clasps only has been priced at seven
slave-women.[1]
Memories describe it as one of Turvey's master-works:
In the time of Art—he was a luxurious king—
'tis then Turvey, lord of many herds, made it.
Smiths never made any work comparable with
it;
Earth never hid a king's jewel so marvellous.
If thou be cunning as to its price, I know thy
children will never be in want;
If thou hoard it, a close treasure, none of thy offspring
will ever be destitute.
There are around us here and there many spoils
of famous luck:
Horrible are the huge entrails which the Morrigan[2]
washes.
She came to us from the edge of a spear, 'tis she
that egged us on.
Many are the spoils she washes, terrible the hateful
laugh she laughs.
She has flung her mane over her back—it is a stout
heart that will not quail at her:
Though she is so near to us, do not let fear over-
come thee!
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