Each in garments fair and with long locks twisted fold in fold:
With the joy that is in thy house men would not grow old,
O Macha, proud, austere, cold.
Of a surety there is much joy to be had of thee and thine,
There in the song-sweet sunlit bowers in that place:
Wounded men might sink in sleep and be well content
So to sleep, and to dream perchance, and know no other grace
Than to wake and look betimes on thy proud queenly face,
O Macha of the Proud Face!
And if there be any here who wish to know more of this wonder,