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‘Emer, why will you not permit me to meet this woman?’ replied Cú Chulaind. ‘She is pure and modest, fair and clever and worthy of a king. A handsome sight she is on the waves of the great-tided sea, with her shapeliness and beauty and noble family, her embroidery and handiwork, her good sense and prudence and steadfastness, her abundance of horses and herds of cattle. Whatever you may promise, there is nothing under heaven her husband could desire that she would not do. Neither will you find a handsome, combat-scarred, battle-victorious champion to equal me.’

‘Perhaps this woman you have chosen is no better than I,’ answered Emer. ‘But what’s red is beautiful, what’s new is bright, what’s tall is fair, what’s familiar is stale. The unknown is honoured, the known is neglected – until all is known. Lad, we lived together in harmony once, and we could do so again if only I still pleased you.’

Cú Chulaind grew melancholy at this, and he said ‘By my word, you do please me, and you will as long as you live.’ ‘Leave me, then,’ said Fand. ‘Better to leave me,’ said Emer. ‘No, I should be left,’ said Fand, ‘for it is I who was threatened just now.’ And she began to cry and grieve, for being abandoned was shameful to her; she went to her house, and the great love she bore Cú Chulaind troubled her, and she recited this poem:

I will continue my journey

though I prefer my great adventure here;

whoever might come, great his fame,

I would prefer to remain with Cú Chulaind.

I would prefer to remain here –

that I grant willingly –

than to go, it may surprise you to learn,

to the sun-house of Áed Abrat.

Emer, the man is yours,

and may you enjoy him, good woman.

What my hand cannot obtain

I must still desire.

Many a man has sought me,

both openly and in secret;

yet I never went to meet them,

for I was upright.

Wretched she who gives her love

if he takes no notice of her;

better to put such thoughts aside

unless she is loved as she loves.

Fifty women came here,

Emer of the yellow hair,

to fall upon Fand–a bad idea –

and kill her in her misery.

But I have three fifties of women,

beautiful and unmarried, at home

with me in my fort –

they would not desert me.

When Manandán learned that Fand was in danger from the women of Ulaid and that she was being forsaken by Cú Chulaind, he came west after her and stood before her, and no one but Fand could see him. When she perceived him, Fand felt deep regret and sadness, and she recited this poem:

See the warlike son of Ler

on the plains of Éogan Indber:

Manandán, lord of the world –

once I held him dear.

Then, I would have wept,

but my proud spirit does not love now –

love is a vain thing

that goes about heedlessly and foolishly.

When Manandán and I lived

in the sun-house at Dún Indber,

we both thought it likely

we would never separate.

When fair Manandán married me,

I was a proper wife:

he never won from me

the odd game of fidchell.

When fair Manandán married me,

I was a proper wife:

a bracelet of gold he gave me,

the price of making me blush.

Outside on the heath I had

fifty beautiful women;

I gave him fifty men

in addition to the fifty women.

Two hundred, and no mistake,

the people of our house:

one hundred strong, healthy men,

one hundred fair, thriving women.

Across the ocean I see

(and he who does not is no fool)

the horseman of the foaming sea,

he who does not follow the long ships.

Your going past us now

none but the Síde might perceive;

your keen sight magnifies the tiniest host,

though it be far distant.

That keen sight would be useful to me,

for the senses of women are foolish:

the one whom I loved so completely

has put me in danger here.

Farewell to you, dear Cú!

I leave you with head held high.

I wish that I were not going –

every rule is good until broken.

Time for me to set out, now –

there is someone who finds that difficult.

My distress is great,

O Lóeg, O son of Ríangabur.