There were dear men on whose plains we used to be driving; it is good the time we passed with them; it is little we were broken afterwards.
When my arms are seen it is long and thin they are; once they used to be fondling, they used to be around great kings.
The young girls give a welcome to Beltaine when it comes to them; sorrow is more fitting for me; an old pitiful hag.
I have no pleasant talk; no sheep are killed for my wedding; it is little but my hair is grey; it is many colours I had over it when I used to be drinking good ale.
I have no envy against the old, but only against women; I myself am spent with old age, while women’s heads are still yellow.
The stone of the kings on Feman; the chair of Ronan in Bregia; it is long since storms have wrecked them, they are old mouldering gravestones.
The wave of the great sea is speaking; the winter is striking us with it; I do not look to welcome to-day Fermuid son of Mugh.
I know what they are doing; they are rowing through the reeds of the ford of Alma; it is cold is the place where they sleep.
The summer of youth where we were has been spent along with its harvest; winter age that drowns everyone, its beginning has come upon me.
It is beautiful was my green cloak, my king liked to see it on me; it is noble was the man that stirred it, he put wool on it when it was bare.