Did’st thou see the fight, and the noble banners, Never would’st thou think but of the glory of the Feinn.
Ossian, Prince’s son, ’twill be thy soul’s great loss That thou now think’st only of the battles of the Feinn.
Did’st thou hear the hounds, and the sounds of the hunt, Thou would’st rather be there than in the holy city.
That is sad, old man, if the glory of the chase Be greater than all which Heaven above can yield.
Say not so, Patrick, empty are thy words, Indeed and in truth, better Finn and the Feinn.
By thy hand, Boisgne’s son, not empty are my words, Better is one angel than Finn and the Feinn.
Were I only now as I was at Gaura’s fight, I would punish thy reproach of Erin’s noble Feinn.
Thy pride is all gone, for all thy future days, None are now left of thy band but thyself.
Were my men in life I’d not hear thy howling, And I’d make thee to suffer in return for thy talk.
Though all of these yet lived, and were now joined together, I’d still not speak only of the Feinn’s seven bands.