In the morning I shall part from all that is human,
I shall follow the warrior-band;
Go to thy house, stay not here, the end of the night
is at hand.
Some one will at all times remember this song of
Fothad Canann;
My discourse with thee shall not be unrenowned,
if thou remember my bequest.
Since my grave will be frequented, let a conspicuous
tomb be raised;
Thy trouble for thy love is no loss of labour.
My riddled body must now part from thee awhile,
my soul to be tortured by the black demon.
Save for the worship of Heaven's King, love of this
world is folly.
I hear the dusky ousel that sends a joyous greeting
to all the faithful:
My speech, my shape are spectral—hush, woman,
do not speak to me!
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