Ah, happy is Lir's bright home to-day,
With mead and music and poet's lay:
But gloomy and cold his children's home,
For ever tossed on the briny foam.
Our [wreathèd] feathers are thin and light
When the wind blows keen through the wintry night:
Yet often we were robed, long, long ago,
In purple mantles and furs of snow.
On Moyle's bleak current our food and wine
Are sandy sea-weed and bitter brine:
Yet oft we feasted in days of old,
And [hazel-mead] drank from cups of gold.
Our beds are rocks in the dripping caves;
Our [lullaby] song the roar of the waves:
But soft rich couches once we pressed,
And harpers lulled us each night to rest.
Lonely we swim on the billowy main,
Through frost and snow, through storm and rain:
Alas for the days when round us moved
The chiefs and princes and friends we loved!
My little twin brothers beneath my wings
Lie close when the north wind bitterly stings,
And Aed close nestles before my breast;
Thus side by side through the night we rest.
Our father's fond kisses, Bove Derg's embrace,
The light of [Mannanan]'s godlike face,
The love of [Angus]—all, all are o'er;
And we live on the billows for evermore!
After this they bade each other farewell, for it was not permitted to the children of Lir to remain away from the stream of Moyle.