Sheltered the gifts of old rest easy within

Blessed knowledge, never fading, never silent

Remnant understanding of those below, hidden only from denouncing forms

They waste away, spittle on the hearth

Saving only curses for the healer, misplaced virtue and distrust

They waste away, spittle on the hearth

Gatherings within, the blind without

Echoes plainly to open ears, the ancient call of the Bandroithe

Envious, weary, saving suspicion only for the healer

They waste away, spittle on the hearth

Life begun and grown from the coffin, life’s procession in funeral disguise

Death a mystery to those below, death a border grown dim with time

So cry out denouncements, scornful decries of piety

Shun, shame, sacrifice

Spew virtue into ears long deaf, waste lifeless breath on desperate words

Saving prayers against the healer

They waste away

They waste away

They waste away

Spittle on the hearth

“Mór mo náir;

Mo chlann féinn a dhíol a máthair

Mise Éire;

Uaigní mé ná an Chailleach Bhéarra”