little but my hair is grey; it is many colours I had over it when I
used to be drinking good ale.

I have no envy against the old, but only against women; I myself am
spent with old age, while women's heads are still yellow.

The stone of the kings on Feman; the chair of Ronan in Bregia; it is
long since storms have wrecked them, they are old mouldering
gravestones.

The wave of the great sea is speaking; the winter is striking us with
it; I do not look to welcome to-day Fermuid son of Mugh.

I know what they are doing; they are rowing through the reeds of the
ford of Alma; it is cold is the place where they sleep.

The summer of youth where we were has been spent along with its
harvest; winter age that drowns everyone, its beginning has come upon
me.

It is beautiful was my green cloak, my king liked to see it on me;
it is noble was the man that stirred it, he put wool on it when it
was bare.

Amen, great is the pity; every acorn has to drop. After feasting with
shining candles, to be in the darkness of a prayer-house.

I was once living with kings, drinking mead and wine; to-day I am
drinking whey-water among withered old women.