From the purple mountains and the grey ash crags
From the pass by the mountain and the crag by the lake
They are marching.
To the southern sea they race; to the sun on the water.
They take rude ships on the water
And then they disperse into the sunless north
Cross the sea to a boggy land, of trees and ferns
And winter sun.
The damp earth, the sacred oak
Branches transfigure the golden sun.
And near the empty sea they give offerings.
Alas my brothers of the north
You are sorrowful now; and to the utmost west
You have been betrayed.
The hoard of your gold was great in days of old
Your back strong and your spear-arm great
The blood that flowed from your wounds was glorious
You were children of the raven and brothers of the sun.
Your heart was like a golden cup
And your sword struck like the rays of the sun
On the lake.
Like O'Neill cutting off his hand
You could dissemble;
Triumphant roaring soul, knowing no death.
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