It is not a little story this is; it is not a story about a fool it is; it is not one district that is keening but every district, with a great sound that is not to be borne, hearing the story of Columcille, without life, without a church.
It is not the trouble of one house, or the grief of one harp-string; all the plains are heavy, hearing the word that is a wound.
What way will a simple man tell of him? Even Nera from the Sidhe could not do it; he is not made much of now; our learned one is not the light of our life, now he is hidden away from us.
He that used to keep us living is dead; he that was our rightful head has died from us; he has died from us that was God’s messenger.
The knowledgeable man that used to put fear from us is not here; the teller of words does not return to us; the teacher is gone from us that taught silence to the people.
The whole world was his; it is a harp without its strings; it is a church without its abbot.
Colum rose very high the time God’s companies rose to meet him; it is bright the angels were, attending on him.
It is short his life was, it is little used to satisfy him; when the wind blew the sheet against him on the sand, the shape of his ribs could be seen through it. He was the head of every gathering; he was a dun of the book of the law; he put a flame in the district of the north, he lightened the district of the west; the east was his along with it; he did not open his heart to every company. Good his death; he went with God’s angels that came to meet him.
He has reached to Axal of his help and to the troops of the archangels; he has reached to a place where night is not seen; he has reached to a plain where music has not to be born; where no one listens to oppression. The King of priests has done away with his troubles.
He knew the way he was going; he gave kindness for hatred; he learned psalms; he broke the battle against hunger.