Sàr-mharcaiche-sìthe
There once was an elf by the name of Beirand, who set out on a journey to a distant land.
Thirteen days he rode, no rest did he take, ‘til a nymph’s abode he entered, ‘side a lake.
“Look there, Narya!” Came a cry of glee, “Do thee spy that yonder apple tree?”
The response, a neigh, she jumped with delight, then off she skipped in a canter spright.
Not a moment passed ‘ere a gusting blast, blew all around, an airy voice cast:
“Hold there, thee elf, this grove is mine — no fruit shall I yield you, nor your equine.”
Next came the reply, “Please grant us respite. Long have we travel’d; surely see thee our plight!”
“Fatigue, I perceive, that is your case, but to earn my grace, let’s have a race.”
To this, the rider did consent, and toward the tree, then off they went.
A howl, a rush, a flying gale, the wind left the rider back on its tail.
But in a flashing streak, a gallop sleek, horse and rider past the wind did barely squeak.
In augmented time, back and forth they sped, ‘til at last, fleet elf arrived ahead.
“Well done,” spake the spirit, as she blew in, “my grace I shall grant thee and all of your kin.”
Beirand and Narya thus took their leave, bearing evermore, the nymph’s reprieve.
The truth of this tale, one can only surmise, but doubtless, Outriders the fastest do comprise.
lann
dlùth
bioradh
astar
