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Till the King a new vengeance had planned to wake her strange listlessness to life:
To Eogan, the slayer of Naois, he gave the sad Deirdré to wife.
And Deirdre smiled once in his face as she mounted the steed by his side,
That was chafing to bear her away and bring the false Eogan his bride.
Never such quarry was seen as Connor's men hunted that day,
Never such laughter was heard as they followed up valley and brae,
For Connor the King for his vengeance was spending his courser's hot breath,
But Deirdré, the daughter of Feilim, was racing her brown steed for Death.

Woe to thee, daughter of Feilim! woe to thee, Deirdré!
Slain for thy sake were the fair sons of Uisneach, and red
Grew the broad plains of Ulster, on Connaught unnumbered the dead—
Woe to thee, Deirdré, Deirdré, daughter of Feilim!

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