Three darlings of the women of Britain; three hawks of Slieve Cuilenn; sons of a king served by valour, to whom warriors did obedience.
Three heroes not good at homage; their fall is a cause of sorrow; three sons of the sister of a king; three props of the army of Cuailgne.
The High King of Ulster, my first betrothed, I forsook for love of Naoise; short my life will be after him; I will make keening at their burial.
That I would live after Naoise let no one think on the earth; I will not go on living after Ainnle and after Ardan.
After them I myself will not live; three that would leap through the midst of battle; since my beloved is gone from me I will cry my fill over his grave.
O, young man, digging the new grave, do not make the grave narrow; I will be along with them in the grave, making lamentations and ochones!
Many the hardship I met with along with the three heroes; I suffered want of home, want of fire, it is myself that used not to be troubled.
Their three shields and their spears made a bed for me often. O, young man, put their three swords close over their grave!
Their three hounds, their three hawks, will be from this time without huntsmen; three aids of every battle; three pupils of Conall Cearnach.
The three leashes of those three hounds have brought a sigh from my heart: it is I had the care of them, the sight of them is a cause of grief.