Or lads with mounting breast to swim
Across the long arms of the sea—
Long are the clouds this night above me.
In the big world there lives no wight
More sad than I this night.
A poor old man with no pith in my bones,
Fit for nothing but gathering stones.
The last of the Finn, the noble race,
Ossian, the son of Finn am I,
Standing beneath the cold grey sky,