Like the moon, like the sun, like a fiery beacon was
the splendour of Niall:
Like a dragon-ship from the wave without a flaw was
Niall, Echu's son.
Tuirn son of Torna
This is a yearnful music, the wail of every mouth in
Kerry—
It increases my grief in my house for the death of
Muredach's[1] grandson.
Saxons will ravage here in the east, noble men of
Erin and Alba,
After the death of Niall, Echu's noble son—it is a
bitter cause of reproach.
Torna
Saxons with overwhelming cries of war, hosts of
Lombards from the continent,
From the hour in which the king fell Gael and Pict
are in a sore straight.
Tuirn son of Torna
Upon Tara's rampart his fair hair shone against
his ruddy face:
Like unto the colour of his hair is red gold or the
yellow iris.
Torna
'Twas great delight, 'twas great peace to be in the
company of my dear foster-son,[2]
When with Echu's son—it was no small thing—
we used to go to the gathering.
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