The host is riding from Knocknarea
And over the grave of Clooth-na-Bare;
Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling [bad word] away.

Empty your heart of its mortal dream.
The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,
Our [bad word] are heaving, our eyes are agleam,
Our arms are waving, out lips are apart;

And if any gaze on [bad word] band,
 [bad word] between him and the deed of his hand,
 [bad word] between him and the hope of his heart.

The host [bad word] 'twixt night and day,
And where is there hope or deed as fair?
Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling [bad word] away.

And if any gaze on [bad word] band,
 [bad word] between him and the deed of his hand,
 [bad word] between him and the hope of his heart.
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ВОИНСТВО СИДОВ
Всадники скачут от Нок-на-Рей,
Мчат над могилою Клот-на-Бар,
Кайлте пылает, словно пожар, 
И Ниав кличет: Скорей, скорей!

Выкинь из сердца смертные сны,
Кружатся листья,  кони летят,
Волосы ветром относит назад,
Огненны очи, лица бледны.
Призрачной скачки неистов пыл,
Кто нас увидел, навек пропал:
Он позабудет, о чём мечтал,
Всё позабудет, чем прежде жил.
Скачут и кличут во тьме ночей,
И нет страшней и прекрасней чар;
Кайлте пылает, словно пожар, 
И Ниав громко зовёт: Скорей!