A Book of Myths, by Jean Lang - Umnet

the shattered victims of the destroying storm. Very soon the swans
were driven one from another and scattered over the face of the angry
deep. Scarcely could their souls cling to their bodies while they
struggled with the winds and waves. When the long, long night came to
an end, in the grey and cheerless dawn Finola swam to the rock of
Carricknarone. But no swans were there, only the greedy gulls that
sought after wreckage, and the terns that cried very dolorously.
Then great grief came upon Finola, for she feared she would see her
brothers nevermore. But first of all came Conn, his feathers all battered
and broken and his head drooping, and in a little Ficra appeared, so
drenched and cold and beaten by the winds that no word could he speak.
And Finola took her younger brothers under her great white wings, and
they were comforted and rested in that warm shelter.
"If Aed would only come," she said, "then should we be happy indeed."
And even as she spoke, they beheld Aed sailing towards them like a
proud ship with its white sails shining in the sun, and Finola held him
close to the snowy plumage of her breast, and happiness returned to the
children of Lîr.
Many another tempest had they to strive with, and very cruel to them
were the snow and biting frosts of the dreary winters. One January
night there came a frost that turned even the restless sea into solid ice,
and in the morning, when the swans strove to rise from the rock of
Carricknarone, the iron frost clung to them and they left behind them
the skin of their feet, the quills of their wings, and the soft feathers of
their breasts, and when the frost had gone, the salt water was torture for
their wounds. Yet ever they sang their songs, piercing sweet and
speaking of the peace and joy to come, and many a storm-tossed
mariner by them was lulled to sleep and dreamt the happy dreams of
his childhood, nor knew who had sung him so magical a lullaby. It was
in those years that Finola sang the song which a poet who possessed the
wonderful heritage of a perfect comprehension of the soul of the Gael
has put into English words for us.
"Happy our father Lîr afar, With mead, and songs of love and war: The