Tell us, O Patrick, what honour is ours, Do the Feine of Ireland in heaven now dwell?
In truth I can tell thee, thou Ossian of fame, That no heaven has thy father, Oscar, or Gaul.
Sad is the tale thou tellest me, Priest, I worshipping God while the Feine have no heaven.
Shalt thou not fare well thyself in that city, Though ne’er should thy father, Caoilte, and Oscar be there?
Little joy would it bring to me to sit in that city, Without Caoilte, and Oscar, as well as my father.
Better see the face of heaven’s son each day, Than all the gold on earth, were it thine to possess.
Tell us, thou Priest of the Holy city, the tale; In return I’ll recount thee the battle of Gaura.
If the tale of that city thou desir’st, old man, No thirst, no hunger, want, reproach are there.
Who are heaven’s sons? more noble are the Feinn: Are they hard of heart? have thou mercy, Cleric;
Unlike them are the Feine, unlike them altogether, Never on the green plain did they seek the chase.