The sharp moon is spent in her course, and the way of the desert is
doubtful.
This oak with his wide leavy branches will shelter our heads from the
night;
And I'll tell thee a story of old, since the tow'r of Arthula is near.

From the walls of his strength came Lochallen, with his broad chested sons
of the hills.
He was strong as a bull of the forest, and keen as a bird of the rock.
His friends of the chace were around him, the sons of the heroes of Mora.
They were clad in the strength of their youth; and the sound of their arms
rung afar.
For Uthal had led his dark host from the blue misty isle of his power;
And o'erspread like a cloud of the desert, the land of the white-headed
Lorma.
Of Lorma who sat in the hall, and lamented the sons of his youth;
For Orvina remained alone to support the frail steps of his age.
He sent to the king of Ithona: he remembered the love of his father:
And Lochallen soon join'd him on Loarn with the high minded chieftains of
Mora.

Loud was the sound of the battle, and many the slain of the field.
Red was the sword of Lochallen: it was red with the blood of the brave.
For his eye sought the combat of heroes, and the mighty withstood not his
arm.
He rag'd like a flame on the heath; and the enemy fled from his face.

But short was the triumph of Lorma; the hour of his fading was near.
Whilst a bard rais'd the song of the battle, his dim eyes were closed in
death.