my sister’s son of the glorious wood, God fashioned it long ago, a tree blest
with various virtues, with three choice fruits.
acorn, and the dark narrow nut, and the apple – it was a goodly wilding –
the King sent by rule on it thrice a year.
Tree of Mugna, great was the trunk, thirty cubits its girth, conspicuous in
sight of all the place where it stood, three hundred cubits it is in height.
Then was the bright plant laid low, when a blast broke Tortu’s Bole; He makes transient every combat, like the long-lived Tree of ancient Mugna.
Mugna, great was the fair tree, high its top above the rest; thirty cubits –
it was no trifle – that was the measure of its girth.
hundred cubits was the height of the blameless tree, its shadow sheltered a
thousand: in secrecy it remained in the north and east till the time of Conn
of the Hundred Fights.
hundred score of warriors – no empty tale – along with ten hundred and forty
would that tree shelter – it was a fierce struggle – till it was overthrown
by the poets.
ROSSA, EO MUGNA
fell the Bough of Dathi? it spent the strength of many a gentle hireling: an
ash, the tree of the nimble hosts, its top bore no lasting yield.
Tortu – take count thereof! the Ash of populous Usnech. their boughs fell –
it was not amiss – in the time of the sons of Aed Slane.
Mugna, it was a hallowed treasure; nine hundred bushels was its bountiful yield:
it fell in Dairbre southward, across Mag Ailbe of the cruel combats.
Bole of Ross, a comely yew
with abundance of broad timber, the tree without hollow or flaw, the stately
bole, how did it fall?