A one-legged, one-armed, one-eyed man, A bundle of rags upon a crutch, Stumbled on windy Cruachan Cursing the wind. It was as much As the one sturdy leg could do To keep him upright while he cursed. He had counted, where long years ago Queen Maeve's nine Maines had been nursed, A pair of lapwings, one old sheep And not a house to the plain's edge, When close to his right hand a heap Of grey stones and a rocky ledge Reminded him that he could make, If he but shifted a few stones, A shelter till the daylight broke. But while he fumbled with the stones They toppled over; 'Were it