And all of the tongues of the mountain, they murmured behind and before.

Then out of a cleft rose a terrible cry,

And a form like a demon went ravening by,

And I fell in a quake on the moss, and I thought I should die.

I ’m no hunting man now, and I sit by the fire,

And whenever the wind keens around by the byre,

I shiver and rock like a reed that has root in the mire.

And if you ’re a young man, and sound to the core,

And a sweet maid is waiting you home at the door,

Beware how you creep up Benbulbin a-hunting the boar!