 | From the Hills of Dream |  |
53
The Sun-Chant of Cathal.
O hot yellow fire that streams out of the sky, sword-white and golden,
Be a flame upon the monks that are praying in their cells in Iona!
Be a fire in the veins of Colum, and the hell that he preacheth be his,
And be a torch to the men of Lochlin that they discover the isle and consume it!
Be a flame upon the monks that are praying in their cells in Iona!
Be a fire in the veins of Colum, and the hell that he preacheth be his,
And be a torch to the men of Lochlin that they discover the isle and consume it!
For I see this thing, that the old gods are the gods that die not:
All else is a seeming, a dream, a madness, a tide ever ebbing.
Glory to thee, O Grian, lord of life, first of the gods, Allfather,
Swords and spears are thy beams, thy breath a fire that consumeth!
All else is a seeming, a dream, a madness, a tide ever ebbing.
Glory to thee, O Grian, lord of life, first of the gods, Allfather,
Swords and spears are thy beams, thy breath a fire that consumeth!
And upon this isle of A-rinn send sorrow and death and disaster,
Upon one and all save Ardanna, who gave me her bosom,
Upon one and all send death, the curse of a death slow and swordless,
From Molios of the Cave to Mûrta and Diarmid my doomsmen!
Upon one and all save Ardanna, who gave me her bosom,
Upon one and all send death, the curse of a death slow and swordless,
From Molios of the Cave to Mûrta and Diarmid my doomsmen!
| From the Hills of Dream | |