this is late My internet was down...
This one, written in 1979, is a take on a traditional story by a friend, now gone.
..I forgot to mention that he had it *Memorized*; would recite it in proper bardic fashion...
Mac Dathó's Dog
By Paladin
A farmer there was, one Mac Dathó by name,
Who had him a dog of the greatest acclaim,
And a pig he had also, of similar worth,
And Mac Dathó himself was the salt of the earth,
And Mac Dathó had also a beautiful wife
Who was smarter than he. Oh he had a hard life
And with peril 'twas fraught, for he lived on the border
...... Of Ulster and Connaught in times of disorder,
Maeve ruling the latter and Connor the first,
And each to the other was biddin' their worst,
A-slayin' and pillagin' when they were able.
The county line ran through Mac Dathó's hall table,
And by fire on the hilltop and blood on the bog
Queen Maeve and King Connor each wanted the dog,
Each havin' to have it the other to spite,
Mac Dathó between them in terrible plight.
For the dog was the finest that ever did bark,
And 'tis said that his ancestor sailed on the ark
As strong as an ox-team, more swift than a deer,
A heart that knew never the meaning of fear,
A gaze that was long and a temper quite short,
A custom of killing whole wolfpacks for sport,
A tail like a bullwhip, a tooth like a sword,
Of all the world's dogs, this Mac Dathó's was lord.
Oh, to own such a dog is a dubious honor
When you live on the line 'twixt Queen Maeve and King Connor.
Now Connor and Maeve, each desirin' the hound,
Called forth their best spokesmen and sent them around
To Mac Dathó's estate for to bargain and plea
On offers a castle, the other cries three
Each promisin' glory and riches no end,
And a monarch of might as protector and friend,
And Mac Dathó full knowin' whichever he choose,
And whatever he win, yet he'll certainly lose
The dog at the least, and most likely his life,
So he stalls the two spokesmen and speaks with his wife.
And she says, "Mac Dathó, we're losin' the dog,
And the pig we'll lose also and likewise the hog,
Yet we'll win both our lives and a fair deal of honor,
For avenged shall we be by Queen Maeve and King Connor.
Now, here's my plan" Twas both brilliant and shady,
Reflectin' the mind of Mac Dathó's old lady.
And thus were the seeds of the plan deeply sown,
For next mornin' he spoke to each spokesman alone
And to each said Mac Dathó, "Your offer I'm takin',
But secret it must be, or bargain I'm breakin'!
Now go to your monarch, and this you must say:
There's a feast at Mac Dathó's on so-and-so day,
And the meat of the feast is Mac Dathó's prize hog,
And the prize, if kept secret, Mac Dathó's own dog,
And your fine royal neighbor I'm also invitin',
So bring all your weapon-men, ready for fightin'."
Now the feast it began on the noon of a day,
Both Connaght and Ulster in battle array,
Both keepin' the peace as best they were able,
Respectin' the line down Mac Dathó's hall table.
The hog such a size that you'd never believe it,
And loud growled the stomachs prepared to receive it
Well-roasted in a pit full an acre in size.
Its glorious savor brought tears to the eyes,
And peace was prevailin' and all were quite meek
'Til Bricriu Poisontongue deigned him to speak,
Cleverest of Ulstermen, subtle and sly,
A smile on his lips, cold contempt in his eye:
"Oh, worthiest warriors, brothers and friends,
How good that the strife long between us now ends,
That we meet here in peace to partake of this hog,
And, oh, isn't Mac Dathó's a marvelous dog?
And honored am I by the mead and fine beer,
Yet most am I honored to join with you here
For, though I be weapon-man deadly and fell,
Yet any I see here could send me to hell,
So skilled are you one and all, men of reknown,
But which one, I wonder, shall earn him the crown?
For when all be heroes, as all of you are,
Yet stands there not one alone, greatest by far,
That hero of heroes who claims the first cut
Of the hog, thus beginning the general glut?
Which of you, I wonder? Impatient I wait
And strong is my hunger, the hour grown late
For the hero of heroes to first cut the hog,
And, oh, isn't Mac Dathó's a marvelous dog?"
Says Bricriu Poisontongue, master of guile,
And sleazy the venom that drips from his smile.
Then, hand on his sword hilt and hate in his eye,
Leaps up a young Connaughtman, saying, "'Tis I!"
"Ye fool," cries an Ulsterman, "Get ye back down,
Ere death at my hand be your greatest reknown!"
"Try me," shouts another, "and I'll wager my soul
Your head will be gracin' my chariot pole!
Now for honor of Connaught I'm slicin' this pig."
"I'll see ye sliced first, who're talkin' so big!"
Roars a weapon-man, red in the ears,
Loyal to Connor these many long years.
One of Maeve's mightiest then takes up the cry,
"It's slicin' ye'd be at, then, here am I!"
And it's challenge and challenge and brag and boast,
And the dog's beginnin' to sniff at the roast,
And meat grows cold and tempers heat,
And weapon-men are on their feet.
And sword hilts warmed by clenching hands,
And Bricriu smiles and understands
The time is right, the stage is set,
And slowly rises mighty Cet
Of Munster, taking Connaught's cause.
With killer's glance he overawes
The weapon-men of either side.
Without a pause or break in stride
He marches on the mighty roast.
"Would any here give up the ghost?"
Cries Cet. "For such I name the fee
Of any who would challenge me
My right to cut the hero's share!"
And all avoid his baleful stare,
And now he lifts his blade to slice
When, "Hail Cet!" rings a voice of ice,
And here is Conal, Ulster's best,
A very late-arriving guest,
He smiles as at a secret jest
And, "Hail Cet!" he calls once again,
"The valley, mountain and the fen
Hail Cet, the mighty warrior's bane!
Hail Cet, the forest and the plain
Declare! Hail Cet, delight of maidens fair!
The earth, the water and the air
Hail Cet!" says Conal. His visage burns.
"Hail Conal!" mighty Cet returns.
"And now," says Conal, "stand aside.
The hero's portion I'll divide."
And in his fist a swordblade gleams.
Across the fens, a raven screams,
And Cet says, "Do you seek a fight?"
And Conal answers, "My delight
Is slaughtering Connaughtmen, one a day.
Since earliest youth it's been my way
To sleep with a Connaughtman's head each night
Beneath my knee. So come and fight."
Then mighty Cet is seen to fear.
"Oh Conal, were my brother here,
But he is not, so slice the roast!"
"Oh Cet," says Conal, "What a boast!
Am I to fear your brother's ghost?
It happens I arrive here late.
Your brother kept me. Read his fate!"
And from the folds of his cape so red
Conal brings Cet's brother's head.
"One last and very welcome guest!"
Cries Conal, and flings it full at Cet's chest.
Then iron on iron and steel on steel,
To the battle song does Mac Dathó's reel,
Each man seeking to slay some foe,
And the ale and the blood both freely flow,
And ankle-deep there rises gore
And heads go skittling 'cross the floor
And death and confusion hold the sway,
And Mac Dathó and wife swiftly gallop away.
And those in the hall do slice and hew
With sword and axe and dagger too,
And in the reek, Mac Dathó's dog
Has quite devoured the roasted hog,
And now he falls upon the guests,
His ravening hunger never rests!
And now against Connaught the battle goes.
"Retreat!" cries Maeve, "We'll meet our foes
Tomorrow or another day!
Now to my chariot, and away!"
And Maeve in her war-cart wildly reels,
The great dog snapping after the wheels,
And all go thundering over the plain,
Maeve in her blood-lust gone insane,
"On too many heroes this canine has fed!"
With stroke of her cleadhmor, strikes off the dog's head.
Dispatchin' its soul to hell or to glory,
Thus endin' the dog and likewise the story.
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