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The Norland King stood on the height

And scanned the rolling sea;

He proudly eyed his gallant ships

That rode triumphantly.

And then he looked where lay his camp,

Along the rocky coast,

And where were seen the heroes brave

Of Lochlin’s famous host.

Then to the land he turn’d, and there

A fierce-like hero came;

Above him was a flag of gold,

That waved and shone like flame.

“Sweet bard,” thus spoke the Norland King,

“What banner comes in sight?

The valiant chief that leads the host,

Who is that man of might?”

“That,” said the bard, “is young MacDoon,

His is that banner bright;

When forth the Féinn to battle go,

He’s foremost in the fight.”

“Sweet bard, another comes; I see

A blood-red banner toss’d

Above a mighty hero’s head

Who waves it o’er a host?”

“That banner,” quoth the bard, “belongs

To good and valiant Rayne;

Beneath it feet are bathed in blood

And heads are cleft in twain.”

“Sweet bard, what banner now I see

A leader fierce and strong

Behind it moves with heroes brave

Who furious round him throng?”

“That is the banner of Great Gaul:

That silken shred of gold,

Is first to march and last to turn,

And flight ne’er stained its fold.”

“Sweet bard, another now I see,

High o’er a host it glows,

Tell whether it has ever shone

O’er fields of slaughtered foes?”

“That gory flag is Cailt’s,” quoth he,

“It proudly peers in sight;

It won its fame on many a field

In fierce and bloody fight.”

“Sweet bard, another still I see;

A host it flutters o’er;

Like bird above the roaring surge

That laves the storm-swept shore.”

“The Broom of Peril,” quoth the bard,

“Young Oscur’s banner, see:

Amidst the conflict of dread chiefs

The proudest name has he.”

The banner of great Fionn we raised;

The Sunbeam gleaming far,

With golden spangles of renown

From many a field of war.

The flag was fastened to its staff

With nine strong chains of gold,

With nine times nine chiefs for each chain;

Before it foes oft rolled.

“Redeem your pledge to me,” said Fionn;

“And show your deeds of might

To Lochlin as you did before

In many a gory fight.”

Like torrents from the mountain heights

That roll resistless on;

So down upon the foe we rushed,

And victory won.

OLD GAELIC