Page:The green helmet and other poems.pdf/81

 Conall would scatter his feathers. [Confused murmurs]

[To Cuchulain] No use, they won't hear a word.

They'll keep it up till the dawn.

It is Laegaire that is the best, For he fought with cats in Connaught while Conall took his rest And drained his ale pot.

Laegaire—what does a man of his sort Care for the like of us? He did it for his own sport.