stranger bards, and Brian asked his brethren if they had anything to
recite.

"We have not," said they; "we know but one art--to take what we want
by the strong hand if we may, and if we may not, to die fighting."

"That is a difficult art too," said Brian; "let us see how we thrive
with the poetry."

So he rose up and recited this lay:--

"Mighty is thy fame, O King,
Towering like a giant oak;
For my song I ask no thing
Save a pigskin for a cloak.

"When a neighbour with his friend
Quarrels, they are ear to ear;
Who on us their store shall spend
Shall be richer than they were.

"Armies of the storming wind--
Raging seas, the sword's fell stroke--
Thou hast nothing to my mind
Save thy pigskin for a cloak."

"That is a very good poem," said the King, "but one word of its
meaning I do not understand."

"I will interpret it for you," said Brian:--