Welcome to The Prophecy of Scathach
The following is from The Tain Bo Cuailgne, Translated by Thomas Kinsella.
A message came for Cuchulainn to come back to his own country. He bade Scathach and her people farewell. Scathach spoke to him of his future and of his end. She chanted to him through the Imbas Forasnai, The Light of Foresight. And this is what she told him.
I salute you-
weary after triumph,
battle eager, icy hearted!
Go where you will find some comfort still
what comfort comes with most speed
what comfort comes with most urgency
alone, no matter where you stand
dire danger ever at hand
alone and ringed with envy
Cruachan's Heroes you destroy
some heroes you protect
others lie broken necked
your straight sword stabs behind you
stained with Setanta's own gore
red battle's distant roar
bones broken by the spear
horned herds hemmed in
the cruel club's hard edge
raw flesh battle's badge
cattle stolen out of Breg
your country under bondage
cattle straying on the ways
for five tear sodden days
hardship and a long sigh
one against an army
your own blood a red plague
splashed on many a smashed shield
on weapons and women red eyed
the field of slaughter growing red
on chopped flesh raven's feed
the crow scours the plowed ground
the savage kite shall be found
herds broken up in wrath
great hosts driving the hordes
blood spilt in a great flood
Cuchulainn's body wasted
there are bitter wounds to bear
and warriors to slaughter
with your red stabbing spiked spear
grief and sorrow where you roam
murderous on Murtheimne Plain
playing at the stabbing game
now the crafty champion comes
in rage against a mighty wave
heroic in his mighty acts
and harsh scream and cruel heart
let him come and women kill
and Medb fight with Ailill
a bed of sickness lies in wait
your breast full of fierce hate
hear the white horned bull roar
against the Brown Bull of Cuailgne
when will he come and when force
with sharp valour through the forest
arise versed in the bloody spike
and long sweeping strong stroke
and twisting run and lone attack
shake off weakness and neglect
arise once more and seize your arms
seasoned in the crafts of war
proud striding raider pitiless
for Ulster's land and virgin women
rise now in all your force
with warlike cruel and wounding shield
and strong shafted curved spear
and straight sword dyed red
in dark gatherings of blood
men in Alba will know your name
in the winter night pity your wail
Aife and Uathach will pity
your sweet shape changing bright body
stretched in sleep nobly broken
for three and thirty full years
all your enemies are yours
you will keep for thirty years
your sharp valour and your force
I will not add another year
nor tell more of your career
full of triumph and women's love
what matter how short.
I salute you!