Suibhne
- I am in great grief to-night,
the pure wind has pierced my body;
wounded are my feet, my cheek is wan,
O great God! it is my due.- Last night I was in Benn Boirche,
the rain of chilly Aughty beat on me;
to-night my limbs are racked
in the fork of a tree in pleasant Gaille.- I have borne many a fight without cowardice
since feathers have grown on my body;
each night and each day
more and more do I endure ill.
- Frost and foul storm have wrung my heart,
snow has beaten on me on Sliabh mic Sin;
to-night the wind has wounded me,
without the heather of happy Glen Bolcain.- Unsettled is my faring through each land,
it has befallen me that I am without sense or reason,
from Magh Line to Magh Li,
from Magh Li to the impetuous Liffey.- I pass over the wooded brow of Sliabh Fuaid,
in my flight I reach Rathmor,
across Magh Aoi, across bright Magh Luirg,
I reach the border of fair Cruachan.- From Sliabh Cua—no easy expedition—
I reach pleasant Glais Gaille;
from Glais Gaille, though a long step,
I arrive at sweet Sliabh Breagh to the east.- Wretched is the life of one homeless,
sad is the Iife, O fair Christ!
a meal of fresh, green-tufted watercress,
a drink of cold water from a clear stream.- Stumbling from withered tree-tops,
faring through furze—deed without falsehood—
shunning mankind, keeping company with wolves,
racing with the red stag over the field.- Sleeping of nights without covering in a wood
in the top of a thick, bushy tree,
without hearing voice or speech;
O Son of God, great is the misery!
- Foolishly I race up a mountain-peak
alone, exhausted by dint of vigour;
I have parted from my faultless shape;
O Son of God, great is the misery!