Full the sea and fierce the surges, Lovely are the ocean verges, On the showery waters whirling, Sandy winds are swiftly swirling, Rudders cleave the surf that urges.
Hard round Éire's cliffs and nesses, Hard the strife, not soft the stresses, Like swan-feathers softly sifting, Snow o'er Milidh's folk is drifting, Manann's wife shakes angry tresses.
At the mouth of each dark river Breaking waters surge and shiver, Wind and winter met together Trouble Alba with wild weather, Countless falls on Dremon quiver.
Son of God, great Lord of wonder, Save me from the ravening thunder, By the feast before Thy dying, Save me from the tempest crying And from Hell, tempestuous under.
Ebbtide to me! My life drifts downward with the drifting sea; Old age has caught and compassed me about, The tides of time run out.
The "Hag of Beare!" 'Tis thus I hear the young girls jeer and mock; Yet I, who in these cast-off clouts appear, Once donned a queenly smock.
Ye love but self, Ye churls! to-day ye worship pelf! But in the days I lived we sought for men, We loved our lovers then!
Ah! swiftly when Their splendid chariots coursed upon the plain, I checked their pace, for me they flew amain, Held in by curb and rein.
I envy not the old, Whom gold adorns, whom richest robes enfold, But ah! the girls, who pass my cell at morn, While I am shorn!
On sweet May-morn Their ringing laughter on the breeze is borne, While I, who shake with ague and with age, In Litanies engage.
Amen! and woe is me! I lie here rotting like a broken tree; Each acorn has its day and needs must fall, Time makes an end of all!
I had my day with kings! We drank the brimming mead, the ruddy wine, Where now I drink whey-water; for company more fine Than shrivelled hags, hag though I am, I pine.
The flood-tide thine! Mine but the low down-curling ebb-tide's flow, My youth, my hope, are carried from my hand, Thy flood-tide foams to land.
My body drops Slowly but sure towards the abode we know; When God's High Son takes from me all my props It will be time to go!
Bony my arms and bare Could you but see them 'neath the mantle's flap, Wizened and worn, that once were round and fair, When kings lay in my lap.
'Tis, "O my God" with me, Many prayers said, yet more prayers left undone; If I could spread my garment in the sun I'd say them, every one.