Oh, death of Fergus, that is lying in the boat here,
Betwixt the man of the red hair and him of the black beard,
Rise now, and out of thy cold white eyes take out the fear,
And let Fergus mac Art mhic Fheargus see his weird!
Sure, now, it's a blind man I am, but I'm thinking I see
The shadow of you crawling across the dead.
Soon you will twine your arm around his shaking knee,
And be whispering your silence into his listless head.
And that is why, O Fergus--
But here the man hurled his sword into the sea, and with a choking cry
fell forward; and upon the white sands he was, beneath the trampling
feet of the Washer of the Ford.