And dying so, alone, of all mortal aid forsaken,
Dead his peerless war steeds, dead his charioteer,
Yet the high splendor of his spirit all unshaken,
Shines morning-bright through the Death-mists drawing near.
And radiant round his brow yet the hero-flame is gleaming,
And firm yet his footstep upon the reddened sod,
As with sword uplifted towards the day’s last beaming,
Forth goes the spirit of Cuchulain unto God.
Leaving to his land and the Celtic race forever
That which shall not fail them throughout the fading years,