Sounds of psalms on my lips are sweeter
Than Finian rhymes to me.
O.—If thou darest liken thy psalms
To the Finian arms blood-red,
Cleric! I swear I would sever
By blade from its trunk thy head.
C.—Great Bard! I compare them not;
The lay of thy lips is sweet;
Let us raise an altar to Finn,
And render him praise complete.