O Son of The Red, Undone and laid dead — The blood of a hero My cold blade hath shed.
Who fought me to-day? Who sought me to slay?— The son of yon High King I slew in the fray.
O blade that yon brave Low laid in the grave, Ye gladdened the Fians But grief to Conn gave.
Stone-hearted and strong, Lone-hearted with long, Dark brooding, he sought to Avenge his deep wrong.
Fair Son of The Red, Care none thou art dead?— Old Goll of Clan Morna Will mourn thou hast bled.
O where shall be found To share with thee round The halls of Valhalla Thy glory renowned?
O true as the blade That slew thee, and made My fear and thine anger For ever to fade —
Ah! when upon earth Again will have birth A son of such honour And bravery and worth?
Above thee in splendour A love that could render Brave service, burned star-like And constant and tender.
With fearing my name, With hearing my fame, O none would dare combat With Goll till Conn came?...
O great was thine ire — The fate of thy sire, Awaiting thy coming, Consumed thee like fire.
O Son of The Red, Undone and laid dead — The blood of a hero My cold blade hath shed.
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