King Cellach Regrets His Student Life

Woe to him who leaveth lore
For the red World's art or ore;
Who the True God's love would leave
With the false World's king to cleave.

Woe, who taketh arms in life
And repenteth not of strife,
Better far books of whiteness
Where psalms are seen in brightness.

Though great the war-man's glory
Much the toil and short his story:
Swift and sharp his life hath past
In exchange for hell at last.

Still stealth of trades is meanest,
Murky, lorn, lankest, leanest;
Whosoe'er hath good at first
Soon he seemeth wicked-worst.

Such the stains that fell upon
Hapless Cellach, Eogan's son:
Roaming now from place to place
With a band of outlaws base.

Woe, who leave high heav'n of saints
For dark hell and horrid plaints.
Christ, our Light o'er combats dim,
Who forsakes Thee, woe to him.