It Is Of Corca Dubhne She Was, And She Had Her Youth Seven Times Over, And Every Man That Had Lived With Her Died Of Old Age, And Her Grandsons And Great-Grandsons Were Tribes And Races. And Through A Hundred Years She Wore Upon Her Head The Veil Cuimire Had Blessed. Then Age And Weakness Came Upon Her And It Is What She Said: Ebb-Tide To Me As To The Sea; Old Age Brings Me Reproach; I Used To Wear A Shift That Was Always New; To-Day, I Have Not Even A Cast One. It Is Riches You Are Loving, It Is Not Men; It Was Men We Loved In The Time We Were Living. There Were Dear Men On Whose Plains We Used To Be Driving; It Is Good The Time We Passed With Them; It Is Little We Were Broken Afterwards. When My Arms Are Seen It Is Long And Thin They Are; Once They Used To Be Fondling, They Used To Be Around Great Kings. The Young Girls Give A Welcome To Beltaine When It Comes To Them; Sorrow Is More Fitting For Me; An Old Pitiful Hag. I Have No Pleasant Talk; No Sheep Are Killed For My Wedding; It Is Little But My Hair Is Grey; It Is Many Colours I Had Over It When I Used To Be Drinking Good Ale. I Have No Envy Against The Old, But Only Against Women; I Myself Am Spent With Old Age, While Women'S Heads Are Still Yellow. The Stone Of The Kings On Feman; The Chair Of Ronan In Bregia; It Is Long Since Storms Have Wrecked Them, They Are Old Mouldering Gravestones. The Wave Of The Great Sea Is Speaking; The Winter Is Striking Us With It; I Do Not Look To Welcome To-Day Fermuid Son Of Mugh. I Know What They Are Doing; They Are Rowing Through The Reeds Of The Ford Of Alma; It Is Cold Is The Place Where They Sleep. The Summer Of Youth Where We Were Has Been Spent Along With Its Harvest; Winter Age That Drowns Everyone, Its Beginning Has Come Upon Me. It Is Beautiful Was My Green Cloak, My King Liked To See It On Me; It Is Noble Was The Man That Stirred It, He Put Wool On It When It Was Bare. Amen, Great Is The Pity; Every Acorn Has To Drop. After Feasting With Shining Candles, To Be In The Darkness Of A Prayer-House. I Was Once Living With Kings, Drinking Mead And Wine; To-Day I Am Drinking Whey-Water Among Withered Old Women. There Are Three Floods That Come Up To The Dun Of Ard-Ruide: A Flood Of Fighting-Men, A Flood Of Horses, A Flood Of The Hounds Of Lugaidh'S Son. The Flood-Wave And The Two Swift Ebb-Tides; What The Flood-Wave Brings You In, The Ebb-Wave Sweeps Out Of Your Hand. The Flood-Wave And The Second Ebb-Tide; They Have All Come As Far As Me, The Way That I Know Them Well. The Flood-Tide Will Not Reach To The Silence Of My Kitchen; Though Many Are My Company In The Darkness, A Hand Has Been Laid Upon Them All. My Flood-Tide! It Is Well I Have Kept My Knowledge. It Is Jesus Son Of Mary Keeps Me Happy At The Ebb-Tide. It Is Far Is The Island Of The Great Sea Where The Flood Reaches After The Ebb: I Do Not Look For Floods To Reach To Me After The Ebb-Tide. There Is Hardly A Little Place I Can Know Again When I See It; What Used To Be On The Flood-Tide Is All On The Ebb To-Day!