"Cormac, grandson of Conn, what dues hath a Chief and an ale-house?" Said Cormac: "Not hard to tell! Good behaviour around a good Chief; Lamps to light for the eye's relief; Exerting ourselves for the Company's sake, Seats assigned with no clownish mistake, Deft and liberal measuring carvers; Attentive and nimble-handed servers; Moderation in music and song; A telling of stories not too long; The Host, to a bright elation stirred, Giving each guest a welcoming word. Silence during the Bard's reciting-- Each chorus in sweet concent uniting."
"O Cormac, grandson of Conn, say sooth, How didst thou order thy days in youth?"
"Into the woods I went a-listening, I was a gazer when stars were glistening; Blind when secrets were plain to guess; A silent one in the wilderness; I was talkative with the many, Yet, in the mead-hall, milder than any; I was stern amid battle cries; I was gentle towards allies; I was a doctor unto the sick; On the feeble I laid no stick. Not close lest burdensome I should be; Though wise not given to arrogancy. I promised little, though lavish of gift; I was not reckless though I was swift; Young, I never derided the old; And never boasted though I was bold; Of an absent one no ill would I tell; I would not reproach, though I praised full well; I never would ask but ever would give, For a kingly life I craved to live!"
"O Cormac Mac Art, of Wisdom exceeding, What is the evilest way of pleading?" Said Cormac: "Not hard to tell! Against knowledge contending; Without proofs, pretending; In bad language escaping; A style stiff and scraping; Speech mean and muttering, Hair-splitting and stuttering; Uncertain proofs devising; Authorities despising; Scorning custom's reading; Confusing all your pleading; To madness a mob to be leading; With the shout of a strumpet Blowing one's own trumpet."
"O Cormac Mac Art, of your enemies' garrison, Who is the worst for your witty comparison?" Said Cormac: "Not hard to tell! A man with a satirist's nameless audacity; A man with a slave-woman's shameless pugnacity; One with a dirty dog's careless up-bound, The conscience thereto of a ravening hound. Like a stately noble he answers all speakers From a memory full as a Chronicle-maker's, With the suave behaviour of Abbot or Prior, Yet the blasphemous tongue of a horse-thief liar And he wise as false in every grey hair, Violent, garrulous, devil-may-care. When he cries, 'The case is settled and over!' Though you were a saint, I swear you would swear!"