With six of the sons of thy sire.
The young men of Alvin are fallen;
The Féinn of Britain are fallen.
And dead is the king’s son of Lochlin,
Who hastened to war for our right—
The king’s son with a heart ever open,
And arm ever strong in the fight.”
“Now, O Bard—my son’s son, my desire,
My Oscar of him, Fergus, tell
How he hewed at the helms ere he fell.”