- Cold is the snow to-night,
lasting now is my poverty,
there is no strength in me for fight,
famine has wounded me, madman as I am.
- All men see that I am not shapely,
bare of thread is my tattered garment,
Suibhne of Ros Earcain is my name,
the crazy madman am I.
- I rest not when night comes,
my foot frequents no trodden way,
I bide not here for long,
the bonds of terror come upon me.
- My goal lies beyond the teeming main,
voyaging the prow-abounding sea;
fear has laid hold of my poor strength,
I am the crazy one of Glen Bolcain.
- Frosty wind tearing me,
already snow has wounded me,
the storm bearing me to death
from the branches of each tree.
- Grey branches have wounded me,
they have torn my hands;
the briars have not left
the making of a girdle for my feet.
- There is a palsy on my hands,
everywhere there is cause of confusion,
from Sliabh Mis to Sliabh Cuillenn,
from Sliabh Cuillenn to Cuailgne.
- Sad forever is my cry
on the summit of Cruachan Aighle,
from Gien Bolcain to Islay,
from Cenn Tire to Boirche.
- Small is my portion when day comes,
it comes not as a new day's right (?),
a tuft of watercress of Cluain CiIle
with Cell Cua's cuckoo flower.
- He who is at Ros Earcach,
neither trouble nor evil shall come to him;
that which makes me strengthless
is being in snow in nakedness.