Literal Translation of the Poems
Son of Alill, who is not weak,
Not of you the deeds that you have boasted for yourself!
Sad it is for my heart and my body
that you there for ever lie.
O boy, the most dexterous that I have seen!
Thou wert a rod of gold on the cushion!
When also thy meeting with any one took place
it was yet this—thy last meeting.
Your hand was rough in war,
you were (iarsla?) of the Fomorians.
Great was the thundering of your blows on the head,
Many were the men upon whom you fell.
Your colour was beautiful, lovely,
You were mindful, fulfilling your duty.
You were light over every valley.
Many were the men upon whom you fell.
Fitting for me was sorrow for you
on account of our meeting, though it came not to that.
Not less on that account my love, without lamentation
even if from you my ill luck springs.
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