Yes, let justice be for twig and flea, ankle and feather in deep heather. A thousand tongues will praise me and none will beg my pardon, my inmates there all to declare I am a caring warden.

Son of Esarg the axe-thrower, smelting and pin-lining coasts with bronze whirls, smoothed by Macha’s shawl. Forger of tools, lately found half-sunk in peat in a depthless bog, with his elbow crooked upward. The gases preserved his jacket, the raised sinew on his small finger, and the blazoned buckle he himself fashioned.