Oh , mightiest of the host of Maev,
Ferdiah, sweetest mouth of song,
Heroic arm most swift and strong
To slaughter or to save.

O curls, O softly rustling wreath
Of yellow curls that round him rolled,
One beauteous belt of glistering gold, —
Who laid you low in death?

Blue eyes that beamed with friendship bright
Upon me through the battle press,
Or o'er the mimic field of chess, —
Who quenched your kingly light?

Alas, Ferdiah, overthrown
By this red hand at last you fell!
My bosom's brother, was it well?
Ochone, ochone, ochone!