No Help I'll Call

No help I'll call till I'm put in the narrow coffin.

By the Book, it would bring it no nearer if I did!

Our prime strong-handed prop, of the seed of Eoghan

– his sinews are pierced and his vigour is withered up.

Wave-shaken is my brain, my chief hope gone.

There's a hole in my gut, there are foul spikes through my bowels.

The Sionainn, the Life, the musical Laoi, are muffled

and the Biorra Dubh river, the Bruice, the Brid, the Boinn.

Reddened are Loch Dearg's narrows and the Wave of Toim

since the Knave has skinned the crowned King in the game.

Incessant my cry; I spill continual tears;

heavy my ruin; I am one in disarray.

No music is nigh as I wail about the roads

except for the noise of the Pig no arrows wound.

That lord of the Rinn and Cill, and the Eoghanacht country

– want and injustice have wasted away his strength.

A hawk now holds those places, and takes their rent,

who favours none, though near to him in blood.

Our proud royal line is wrecked; on that account

the water ploughs in grief down from my temples,

sources sending their streams out angrily

to the river that flows from Truipeall to pleasant Eochaill.

I will stop now – my death is hurrying near

now the dragons of the Leamhan, Louch Lein and the Laoe are destroyed.

In the grave with this cherished chief I'll join those kings

my people served before the death of Christ.