Back to your underworld, all my demon helpers,
Fly to your caverns where no sunlight falls:
Hither comes a warrior born of the Immortals,
Hurry from his presence to your moonless halls.
Loose the chains that bind these Fians brave and noble,
Loose the strong enchantment wrought by Fomor art;
Hasten now, dark spirits, to the hidden portal,
All our wiles availed naught, conquered we depart.
There was a strange rustling sound in the cave as she chanted, and the Fians saw a host of shadowy beings—huge and monstrous, and hideous beyond words—rise up from about them and melt and disappear into the darkness of the cave beyond. At the same moment the oppression left their limbs, and when they stood up, hardly daring to believe that the witches' enchantment was so quickly dispelled, they found that all their strength and energy had returned to them.
At supper that evening the Fians made great rejoicing, while the Druids and poets of the Fianna composed and sang songs of praise in honour of Goll mac Morna, who had delivered them when they were in a more deadly peril than had ever befallen them before.
