[A Scots brother passed along this snippet, but could not remember where he found it originally. It has a real feel of the Celt in it, and is no doubt part of a larger work of some importance, and I am hoping that some reader of it will recognize this piece and enlighten me further. In the meantime, enjoy! -- Brian y Tarw Llwyd]At the end of his seven years, one born to it will stand at the start of knowledge, and leaning a fond ear to the soul he may have parley with old folks of old affairs. Playing to the tune of the fairy harp, he can hear his forefolk, plaided in skins, towsy headed and terrible, grunting at the oars and snoring in the caves, where the white-haired sea-rovers are on the shore, and a stain's on the edge of the tide; or, he can stand by the cairn of kings, ken the colour of Fingal's hair, and see the moon-glint on the hook of the druids.