"Woe upon me that I am alive! My wings are frozen to my sides. O beloved three, O beloved three, Who hid under the shelter of my feathers, Until the dead come back to the living I and the three shall never meet again!"
And she flew to the Lake of the Seals and soon saw Conn coming towards her with heavy step and drenched feathers, and Fiachra also, cold and wet and faint, and no word could they tell, so cold and faint were they: but she nestled them under her wings and said: "If Aod could come to us now our happiness would be complete." But soon they saw Aod coming towards them with dry head and preened feathers: Fingula put him under the feathers of her breast, and Fiachra under her right wing, and Conn under her left: and they made this lay:
"Bad was our stepmother with us, She played her magic on us, Sending us north on the sea In the shapes of magical swans.
"Our bath upon the shore's ridge Is the foam of the brine-crested tide, Our share of the ale feast Is the brine of the blue-crested sea."
One day they saw a splendid cavalcade of pure white steeds coming towards them, and when they came near they were the two sons of Dearg the king who had been seeking for them to give them news of Dearg the king and Lir their father. "They are well," they said, "and live together happy in all except that ye are not with them, and for not knowing where ye have gone since the day ye left the Lake of the Red Eye." "Happy are not we," said Fingula, and she sang this song:
"Happy this night the household of Lir, Abundant their meat and their wine. But the children of Lir--what is their lot? For bed-clothes we have our feathers, And as for our food and our wine-- The white sand and the bitter brine, Fiachra's bed and Conn's place Under the cover of my wings on the Moyle, Aod has the shelter of my breast, And so side by side we rest."
So the sons of Dearg the king came to the Hall of Lir and told the king the condition of his children.
Then the time came for the children of Lir to fulfil their lot, and they flew in the current of the Moyle to the Bay of Erris, and remained there till the time of their fate, and then they flew to the Hill of the White Field and found all desolate and empty, with nothing but unroofed green raths and forests of nettles--no house, no fire, no dwelling-place. The four came close together, and they raised three shouts of lamentation aloud, and Fingula sang this lay: