Oh, when my Knight rode forth at morn,
The blue hills shone, sun-kissed, afar;
Oh, when my Knight was homeward borne,
Over him glittered the first pale star.

Raise the dirge for the bravest chief!
Foremost in danger on battle plain:
Deaf, oh deaf, is he to my grief–
Raise the dirge for Nial O'Cahan.

Little he dreamt of a death-blow then,
With his hounds high-leaping around his knee;
Bound for the shady green woods of Prehen,
The hunting-band was a sight to see.

I waved my scarf from Dungiven's tower,
He turned in his stirrup to doff again
The white-plumed cap–in his manhood's flower,
Raise the dirge for Nial O'Cahan.

Could my curses wither your base, black brood,
I would curse you, Donal, from dawn till dark,
For you sought him by stealth in the ferny wood,
And he lay on the blue-bells still and stark.

He who had stood through your childhood lone
Your strong, bright shield against woe and pain,
The viper he cherished and loved for his own
Bit to the heart's core of Nial O'Cahan.

Home by Glen Dermot his clansmen stepped,
With solemn pacing, beneath the pall.
What was the quarry so wildly bewept
And laid at my feet in the castle hall?

Hark! they are digging his narrow grave,
And your red hand, Donal, shall keep its stain,
Though all the waters of Foyle should lave,
For the doom you dealt to Nial O'Cahan.

Pray, oh Priest, by your altar stone,
That his soul may look on God's Face to night,
Raise, oh Keeners, the shrill Ochón,
For my lord, who fell in no hard-fought fight.

Raise the dirge for the generous chief
Whose dead hand dropped from the slackening rein,
Deaf forever is he to my grief–
Raise the dirge for Nial O'Cahan.