  Nipping this winter's night, the snow drifts by, Below the hill the boisterous billows roar; 'Tis bitter cold to-night the mountain o'er, Yet still the ungovernable stag bells forth his cry. To-night laid not his side upon the ground The deer of Slievecarn of the hundred fights; He, with the stag of Echtge's frozen heights, Caught the wolves' snarl, and quivered at the sound. I, Caoilte, wakeful lie, and Dermot Donn, We, with keen Oscar of the footsteps fleet, Watch the slow hours of moving night retreat, Whilst the dread pack of hungry wolves comes on. Well rests the ruddy deer in dawn's dim light, Deep breathing near the covering earthen mound, Hidden from sight, as 'twere beneath the ground, All in the latter end of chilly night. And of the younger men but few I know, Though, in the ice-bound mornings long ago, From my firm grasp the javelin flew apace. I thank Heaven's King, I thank sweet Mary's Son, My hand it was that silenced countless men; They lie stretched out beneath us in the glen, Colder than we, death-cold, lies many and many an one. |
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