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Deep-wounded, down he sinks at last, When, lo! the cranes' wings rustle past. He hears, though he no more can see, Their voices screaming fearfully. "By you, ye cranes, that soar on high, If not another voice is heard, Be borne to heaven my murder-cry!" He speaks, and dies, too, with the word.
So we urged our lady to let us go out to meet you, but to remain herself in the Dun." "It was good urging," Fionn assented. "She would not be advised," the servant wailed. "She cried to us, 'Let me go to meet my love'." "Alas!" said Fionn. "She cried on us, 'Let me go to meet my husband, the father of the child that is not born." "Alas!" groaned deep-wounded Fionn.
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