Let us find the chief of the battles of Erin. The chief of shells is sad, and the halls are silent and lonely. Come, let us find Cuthullin, and give him all our joy. The wind of Cromla is on my eyes. I distinguish not my friend.
Thy sons are like stars that attend thy course.
Thou fliest to thy cave of grief, and Connan fights thy battles. Resign to me these arms of light. I fled not to the cave of grief, till Erin failed at her streams. Often have I heard thy fame, thou stormy chief of Inis-fail. Spread now thy white sails for the isle of mist.