Erard Mac Coisse on the Death of King Malachy II

Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath!
Alas that thy lord is not alive!
The high-king of Meath of the polished walls,
His death has thrown us off our course.

Thou without games, without drinking of ale,
Thou shining abode of the twisted horns!
After Malachy of noble shape
Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath!

I upon the green of thy smooth knolls
Like Ronan's son after the Fiana,
Or like a hind after her fawn,
Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath!

I got three hundred speckled cups,
Three hundred steeds and bridles
In this famous fort of noble shape--
Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath!

After Malachy and sweet Brian,
And Murchad that was never weak in hurdled battle,
My heart has been left without a leap of vigour,
Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath!

Ochone! I am the wretched phantom,
Small are my wages since the three are gone.
Greater than my own ruin is my cause of lament,
Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath!

Och! 'tis I that am the body without head,
I, Mac Coisse, chief of all poets--
Now that my skill and my vigour are gone,
Alas for thy state, O Dun na Sciath!