From Campbell’s Popular Tales of the West Highlands Vol. III:
LXXIII THE YELLOW MUILEARTEACH
On a day when the Fhinn were on Oirill's mound,
A watching the Eireann all around,
There was seen coming on the tops of the wave,
The crooked, clamouring, shivering brave.
The name of that undaunted wraith
Was the bald russet-yellow Muilearteach
From Lochlann's bounds, coming on brine,
All in a day to cover Eirinn.
A rusted glaive was upon her belt,
Will give them a grim darkling pelt;
When the time of the fury of battle shall come.
There were two slender spears of battle,
Upon the other side of the carlin;
Her face was blue-black of the lustre of coal,
And her bone tufted tooth was like rusted bone.
In her head was one deep pool-like eye,
Swifter than a star in a winter sky;
Upon her head gnarled brushwood,
Like the clawed old wood of the aspen root.
> Looking over the shining lake they saw a huge hunched miserable monstrous
> blue-faced green-toothed crone-like spectre with long shaggy hair and a
> crooked snub nose. The phantom-formed cruel creature had squinting watery
> eyes, crooked lips, rough-coiled hair like sticks of heather with a pelt of
> red-grey fox fur that covered without concealing her nakedness. Her narrow
> furrowed forehead was covered with lumps and running sores and branch-like
> protuberances. Greedy gaping purple pus-filled bitter boggy beetle eyes
> peered out through red-rimmed lids under craggy walls of red-grey beetle
> brows. A great blue-green squashed sprawling snorting piggy snout wide as a
> fist streamed snot down the sides of the hideous hag. One side of her
> spacious bulging belching mouth twisted up to her nose and the other down to
> her bristly beard. The spectre had a pair of rotten teeth like broken wicker
> and a quick pointed piercing perverting uncouth bitter leprous tongue in her
> head. A green gristly stripped stook of a stick-like neck supported the head
> of the hag. Two black-headed round lumpy stony stork shoulders joined her
> blackened flanks and ribs. Scrawny arms with stiff pointy woodbine elbows
> and large crooked hands of brutish gnarled twiggy clawed fingers hung from
> her skinny shoulders. Like two pouchy bags of jiggling porridge were the
> puny paps on the withered bosom of that heroic hag. A cavernous broad belly
> spread over her wasted frame. Knobby-kneed, skew-shinned, thick-thighed,
> ample-arsed, turn-toed, with a feather-flecked evil stream-gap. Two bumpy
> bare flat feet, bent fingers, crooked curves, narrow black heels, foul fetid
> fork. That was the appearance of the hag.
> She had a heap of heads and arms and legs and battle-spoils which she was
> washing at the edge of the lake so that the water was flowing with hair and
> Donough asked her, "What is your name, who are your people, and who are
> these dead here on the shore?"
> "Bemoaner of the Burren is the name that I bear, of Tuatha Dé Danann
> descent. Take heed, O king, for your soldiers' heads and your own head will
> be part of this imminent devastation. Ye wear them now, but they are no
> longer yours. Ye march now to battle, but soon there will be nothing left of
> ye except what the birds carry away."
> "Calamity, tragedy, violence, fierce fighting await ye ..." and she went on
> to specify which warriors would die and how.
> "Pay no heed to that silly creature's prophecy," said Donough to his men,
> "for she is nothing but a war-goddess woman-friend (badhbh bancharad) to
> Clan Turlough."
> All that the badhbh prophesied, down to the last detail, came to pass in the
> battle, which was won by Murtagh of Clan Turlough, who thus became king of
> Dennis referred me to American singer-songwriter Danny Carnahan,
> who heard this story as a local folk tale in the 1970s and wrote a song
> about it. With his permission, I include an excerpt of his song in the book.
> Richard Marsh