Nevertheless, then as since, alas! the pleasant theory was preferred by
the Milesian historians to the plain truth. And far away inland, monks
wrote and harpers sung of the death of Ranald, the fair-haired Fiongall,
and all his "mailed swarms."
One Teague MacMurrough, indeed, a famous bard of those parts, composed
unto his harp a song of Clontarf, the fame whereof reached Ranald's ears,
and so amused him that he rested not day or night till he had caught the
hapless bard and brought him in triumph into Waterford. There he compelled
him, at sword's point, to sing, to him and his housecarles the Milesian
version of the great historical event: and when the harper, in fear and
trembling, came to the story of Ranald's own death at Brian Boru's hands,
then the jolly old Viking laughed till the tears ran down his face; and
instead of cutting off Teague's head, gave him a cup of goodly wine, made
him his own harper thenceforth, and bade him send for his wife and
children, and sing to him every day, especially the song of Clontarf and
his own death; treating him very much, in fact, as English royalty, during
the last generation, treated another Irish bard whose song was even more
sweet, and his notions of Irish history even more grotesque, than those of
Teague MacMurrough.
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