They lay in the heath of Mora. The dark winds rustled over the chiefs. The harp is not strung on Morven. The voice of music ascends not on Cona. Dead, with the mighty, is the bard.
Fame is in the desert no more.
Over Lena is heard the horn of Swaran. The sons of the ocean gather around. The blast of Erin is behind their sails. White, as the mist of Morven, they float along the sea. My son rests on the bed of death.